


Teach Me To Live

by donttouchthefigs



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: F/M, Gen, Modern, This started out as something that was supposed to be fifty pages, it's about 300 now, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttouchthefigs/pseuds/donttouchthefigs
Summary: They had not fallen in love so much as tumbled straight down the stairs of affection into passion, and here they were at the bottom, smarting from the landing. He had claimed to love her and had promised to give her all she wanted of him if only she'd let him love her from afar. She didn't want that. She wanted him to love with her, near her. Modern AU, T eventual M.





	1. Chapter 1

Of course, Christine knew who he was before she saw him.

Large cold brew, two shots of espresso, black, light ice. That was his order. And considering the orders the Little Latte got, it was fairly tame. They were competing with the big national companies that had other coffee shops on every corner, and had to out shine them with creativity. And in New Jersey there were a lot of corners. The LL had three shops, but did good business, had good workers, fair prices and were a Mom and Pop alternative for those who cared deeply about that kind of thing. They survived on two things: regulars and technology. Because they were small they were able to update their tech faster than broad national corporations.

Online orders were the hot thing, and his was always an online order. She never knew his name: on the app you could have a name or screen name and Music Angel was all that popped up on his tag. But she knew his drink and that he only ever came to the drive thru. His black Jaguar would pull up and a quiet voice would tell them which order he was coming for. And while she was certain his windows worked, he would open his door, and a gloved hand would come out for the drink, and to place a five dollar bill in the tip jar. He always tipped 100%, which made him a favorite among the baristas.

But she never once saw his face until October.

She was working the bar, making drinks, and dealing with the public. Christine was told by Meg's mother she had the sweetest face this side of the country, so she was always shoved front and center. It was half way through the month, and still he ordered the same iced drink even if a freakishly early snow was threatened every day. She placed it by the drive thru counter and thought no more about it.

"Here Detective." She handed out the cappuccino to the cop, another regular. Detective Khan, who always took patrol no matter what the weather, was a kind man, with an easy smile. He'd hang around the hand off plane, chatting even after he got his drink. He knew all their names too, and made horrible jokes that were a blessed break between the impatient sighs and snide corrections of retail.

"Thank you Miss Daae." He popped the top and took a sip humming. "Wonderful, perfection, sensational."

"Standard," she said, giggling, wiping off the milk steamer.

"You mean you didn't make this special with love and care?"

"Always for you," she vollied back as the bell above the door rang. With a cold gust of chill wind, a dark figure stepped into the shop, hood up, hands stuffed into their pockets and slipped towards the hand off. Christine's stomach clenched ready as always to guard against the possibility of a robbery, but she told herself that it was October, and that masks were not totally uncommon. Maybe he was going to an early Halloween event? After all she had seen weirder, especially in the summer when the Renaissance Faire was in full swing.

"My, you're inside," Detective Kahn murmured, watching the stranger. Apparently he knew him. He moved a little to the side to make room for the dark figure.

"My car is broken," came the soft, deep baritone that tickled Christine's memory. He observed the online orders and sighed softly, almost as if he were in pain. He lifted his face and Christine saw pure gold eyes. Ah! Of course he must be wearing stage contacts! Though they were very good, one was less colorful than the other, almost unsaturated. "Did an order for Music Angel come?"

"Oh!" This was Music Angel, the Great Tipper? "You have legs!"

It was a joke most baristas said when drive thru regulars came through their cafe. She said it with flippant ease, and a large smile as she hurried over to collect his drink. When she returned, his eyes had gone as round as coins, and Christine felt her stomach drop. Had she misspoken? Been too familiar? Had she just coast the store a regular and tips? People had ripped them online for less. "I-mean you're usually..."

Then Detective Khan leaned back and spoke in another language looking Music Angel over. It sounded a bit like Farsi. The masked man finally blinked. His whole demeanor changed. He became easy looking at his friend, or easier as his eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side, voice sardonic as he spoke back in the same language. It made the detective laugh heartily.

Music Angel took his drink and made to hand her the five dollar bill. "Oh here!" She tapped the little mason jar for tips that was in front of him. His shoulders hunched and his head ducked as he quickly shoved the money inside and made for the door.

"Wait," Khan said, following quickly. "I'll give you a ride. Did you walk here?"

"From the garage, yes. I don't mind the cold."

"Then you can come and shovel my driveway. Come on."

"Lights and sirens?"

"Of course. I'll even cuff you, Be like old times." The office turned and winked at Christine before placed a hand on Music Angel's shoulder and led him out of the shop.

The next time she saw him was a similar situation. It was Christmas time, and Detective Khan was waiting for his drink. Christine was wiping down the tables, humming along to the music with him. He had complimented their playlist and was joining Sorelli in a soft and only slightly off key rendition of "Last Christmas." She heard the bell, and instinctively turned around. Again a black figure stepped in, a black mask covering his face from hair to upper lip. Immediately she leaned over the counter and called, "Meg, can you hand me that large cold brew?"

The blonde hurried over with it and gave the men her best retail smile. She had been the first one of them to notice the amount given by Angel. She could guess with almost perfect accuracy who and how much a customer was going to tip. "Thank you," the man murmured. He reached for the straws only to find the bin empty.

"I'll get it," Meg chirped heading to the back. Angel frowned and his shoulders seemed to hunch again, and Christine wondered if it was from embarrassment. He had done the same thing when he had been corrected where to put his money.

" _This year to save me from tears I'll give it to someone special_ ," The cop teased his friend with the lyrics of the song.

Angel tilted his head, smirking. Or at least Christine thought he did, it was hard to see his mouth. " _Je ne savais pas que vous et votre proctologue etaient si proches_ ," he murmured reaching for the newly replenished straws.

Khan's laugh however was accompanied by Christine. Though hers was more of shock. While she couldn't claim to know Angel outside of his fine overcoat and drink, he didn't seem to be a man to make such a joke. The man spun to look at her, his eyes wide again. This time it was more comical than scary, as he had the straw between his teeth sliding the wrapper off. But, then again he stood more than a head taller than her...

"You speak French," Khan asked, still grinning.

"I learned it in college."

"In the conservatory?

"Yes, we had to know it to really sing opera well. But I only know enough to recognize, not really to speak with any kind of..." She waved a hand, trying to think of the word. "Mastery. And I prefer Italian."

"You sing opera," Angel said softly. He was giving her his full rather intense attention. Christine straightened a little, as if in front of a professor again. He was so tall and imposing, with his soft voice and finely made clothes. She saw under his wool overcoat that he was wearing a black on black suit, and spied the gold chain of a pocket watch.

"I did," Christine corrected.

"No more? Why?"

"I had to leave school."

"Wh-"

"Erik," Khan murmured finally taking his drink, and continued softly in Farsi. Angel-Erik, ducked his head, eyes sweeping over Christine as if suddenly seeing her for the first time, then turned towards the door again, hurrying out.

"It was okay," Christine said, embarrassed for the man. "He wasn't bothering me."

"All the same, he doesn't really know when to stop. Better early than too late."

"He seems...jumpy? If he doesn't like this place why does he order everyday?"

"It's not this lovely store," he assured. "Or the lovely baristas. He doesn't do so well in company."

"You're good friends?"

Khan nodded, sipping his espresso. "Old friends, I don't know if that counts as good."

"Well...tell him thank you for the money. And that he doesn't have to be so nervous. We don't bite."

"Yeah," Meg said turning off the steamer. "It costs extra."

"Meg," Christine cried, her cheeks blooming red. "I'm sorry, detective."

"Don't worry. I'm used to Meg. Here." He stuffed a dollar in the jar, and winked at Sorelli. "Pass on the bite. Merry Christmas!"

After that, Christine didn't think much on it. She had her apartment to pay for, hours to pick up to pay the bills. She sometimes felt bad that the store keeper, Meg's mom Mrs. Giry, always favored her with hours. But she put her best foot forward and did work hard. Anything else that needed coverage was paid by her side business, taking commissions as a makeup artist. She was glad that some classes from her theater degree hadn't gone to waste. Though it had taken practise to take it down from stage make up to something that would look pleasing in the sun. And up close.

Safe to say she was busy enough as it was.

Therefore, when An-Erik showed up again in mid August, she was surprised. More so because he appeared quite suddenly behind her as she swept the cafe floor. She squeaked and pressed a hand to her chest. He was so tall and dark behind her! And who on earth wore an overcoat in the summer? At least his hood was no longer up. She could see that he had thick black hair, combed back and tied tightly at the base of his head, locks escaping to fall over his eyes. Maybe those weren't contacts after all...?

"You scared me," she said trying to laugh it off even as her heart pounded in her chest. More than that, she was a little embarrassed. Phil Collins was playing and she had been singing to herself.

"I did...cough," he said, so softly she had to lean closer to hear him. He took a quick step back when she did, and lifted his hand to his face, adjusting his mask, as some who wore glasses did with their spectacles. Definitely a nervous habit. Then he stuck out his arm. In his hand was an envelope.

"Ah, is this a-"

"This is not a tip for everyone. This is for you."

"O-oh. Thank you." She took the envelope, but before she could say another word he turned and swept from the cafe. "H-hey did you get your...? Meg!" Dragging the broom behind her she went to the hand off. "Did he get his order?"

"He didn't make one," she said consulting the touch screen computer.

"What?"

"Yeah, no. Nothing today. What did he give you?"

She shrugged. Tucking the wooden handle of the broom under her arm she peered into the envelope. "Holy Moses!"

"What? Is it a hundred? Lemmie see!"

"It's not money Meg, yeesh."

"Listen if it's not green I ain't seen'."

"It's opera tickets!"

"Opera!" She leaned her whole body over the counter now, the red apron soaking up the condensation left by hundreds of iced drinks that had been placed there before. "Whoa Nelly!"

"I can't keep this!"

"What do you mean you can't keep that? He's asking you out!"

"No-there's only one ticket." She took it out and showed it to Meg. They were box seats to boot!

"Then they're a gift. Why can't you take it?"

"Meg, do you know how much these coast? I can't accept these tickets from a man I don't know!"

She snorted. Meg was a good friend, and a pure opportunist. She was always one to push Christine when she as too timid to do anything. When her father died and she dropped out of the college, she had pushed for her to go back. When that had failed, she had been the one to take Christine out to find an apartment, convinced her to take the shift manager position at the Little Latte, and to use what skill she had learned as a theater major to do freelancing. With out Meg and her mother(who was like a beloved aunt to Christine) she didn't know where she would be now, orphaned and alone in the world.

But sometimes she was a bit much.

"Your choice. But if you're not going to take them I'll give them to Mom."

Christine drew back, pressing the paper to her chest. "No. Listen, if Detective Khan comes in, will you call for me in the back?"

She was on her lunch break when Meg called her. Brushing crumbs from her shirt, she used the back door and hurried out into the parking lot, catching Khan before he slid into his patrol car. "Detective! Detective Khan?"

He stopped and turned, grinning. "Hello there, Miss Daae. It's not often I have a pretty girl calling my name. At least not for years."

"Detective..." She raised a finger to ask him to wait as she gasped for breath. "Erik...he..."

"Erik what," he said, his voice growing concerned in the space of a second. He was standing straighter now, his dark brows knit, turning his usual warm brown face hard. "Erik what?"

"He gave me these." She pulled the envelope from her pocket.

He took it and peered inside. He seemed to calm immediately, but then looked uncomfortable. "Oh. I see."

"Can you please tell him I can't accept. That's way to expensive a gift to give to your usual barista."

"I wouldn't call it that," he murmured. "Erik has certain connections. I've been getting free tickets for me and my dates for years."

"Still, pulling big favors like that, I can't accept. It wouldn't feel right."

Detective Kahn seemed to be weighing the possibilities, dark eyes darting between the ticket and Christine, then to the establishment. "Normally I would agree but..."

"But?" She frowned. "It's...Meg said he was asking me on a date. He's not, is he?"

The detective let out a loud short laugh, that ended in a cough. "Ha! No-ah, no he is certainly not. Not that-" He pressed his knuckles to his forehead. "I'm sure you have plenty young men on your dance card. But Erik, I told you he's not used to company. He's also not used to showing gratitude or most...emotions. I think this is just the only way he knows how to show it."

"He tips well."

"Yes, but that's for the store. I think he appreciates how kind you are. After all you didn't gawk."

"The mask? Well starring is rude, but why does h-"

The Detective interrupted her by handing the ticket back. "Not everyone has your tact. In fact most don't." Now the detective sounded bitter, a frown pulling at the ends of his mouth. He handed the envelope back. "Think about it. If you really feel that uncomfortable I will of course tell him, and remind him how to act. But I do think it's no more than him just trying to give what he has to give, since you both share an interest. Surely other patrons give you little things here and there?"

"Well...yes." There was a professor that gave them some of his drawings when they showed interest, a woman starting her own company gave each of the girls a tester of liquid lipstick, and an older man who came into the store for company at Christmas gave the store a fifty dollar tip, then a little extra for Christine and Meg and a few others he favored in little red envelopes. But all of the didn't amount to the dollar sum in this particular gift!

"Erik is nothing if not...extravagant, shall we say. And there are not many that have an affection for opera, so much so that they go to school for it. It's a lonely hobby."

Christine remembered his over coat, and the gentle way he spoke as if he was afraid of scaring her off with a few decibels difference. He acted like a skittish cat, from what she saw, as if everyone were about to reprimand him.

She peeked again into the envelope.  _Turandot_. She loved that opera to death. Her father would play it on his violin for her, and it was the one of the only operas she studied with a happy ending. And she had to admit she missed the theater. The dressing up, the luxurious velvet seats, the curtain call, the orchestra tuning up, the excitement of overtures. She longed to go back to that happy time when it was her life, home and beyond.

"Think about it," Khan repeated, softer this time. "I promise this isn't a bad gesture. When he found out you sang he wanted to ask you a million questions. That's why I stopped him. I think he feels you need encouragement," he said. But he looked a little perturbed behind his smile.

"I...I will. Thank you detective."

At home in her little apartment, she turned the the ticket over in her fingers. Booting up her rather chunky laptop, she looked up the theater in Jersey City. The Mazenderan Theater, was an interesting name. It was a beautiful building, lovingly designed, she could see that; when she went to google maps, her mouth fell open at how...gorgeous it was. It rejected the usual Greco-Roman styles that modern theaters in America tried, as if architects couldn't get away from the stately vision that government monuments possessed. It really did look like some Persian palace plopped into the middle of the lot.

The website boasted Trundot and the rest of their listings for the season as well as some photos inside. It was gorgeous, all red and gold and old-world charm. And when she looked up the price of her ticket she turned white. "Holy..." she murmured. That was it, she wasn't going.

Unfortunately it wasn't so easy. She kept thinking on how lovely that theater was. She had been in plenty when her father went on tour with the orchestra, and in school. But none that breath stoppingly beautiful. She could imagine herself, as she washed dishes, putting on a pretty dress, sweeping into the theater, feeling lovely in heels and her makeup, for a night of sophisticated entertainment. To feel her heart beat again in time to the beat of the music, to let her whole sense of self go with the sway of music.

To be transported away to that place that wasn't very far, but certainly wasn't reality, where music played with her imagination, conjuring up pictures and people and scenes in her mind's eye, letting her live somewhere that wasn't her apartment, or the drudgery of life, that wasn't really Christine anymore. In place she could be anything, from milk maid to queen. To capture that feeling that only came now when she was tired and her to-sleep playlist was particularly good. And only then it was only or a few moments, until she was asleep or jarred by some alarm, rousing her to complete some task or another.

After all, it's the only ticket. She had looked up her seat online, box five, and found that it only had one seat assigned to it. Odd but it also meant that if Erik was trying to trick her into a date, or anything else, he wouldn't be sitting with her. She could avoid him.

She winced. That was a mean thought. But she didn't know the man. And Detective Khan was good and she trusted him in a way most trust the police, but this masked man didn't exactly endear himself.

And she could pawn off her hours onto someone else who wanted them. What else was she going to do on Saturday night? She glanced around her apartment the day before the performance. It was rather cluttered, she had taken all she could from her parent's house before the bank took it and auctioned off everything inside. But despite the things crowding it, it was as empty as a tomb. Bare walls, only staples in the kitchen. No flowers, not even a pet. Or a bookshelf! All her novels piled up on the floor.

She had no friends besides Meg, having gone mute on all the people she had met at the conservatory. The grief had been too much, and the thought of associating with people steeped in music like her father who would never ever play another note had been too much. She had shut down, numb to the world except for the seering hours of pain that shot through her like an arrow when she least expected it. Anything could bring it on, from eating breakfast to hearing a certain note on a string.

She had not only lost a parent. She'd lost her passion. Oh she still loved music, as her bloated MP3 player could prove. But she sectioned it away For sleep and for the store, that as all. Now silenced reigned in this tiny place. No more singing, no more shows, no more stories.

She missed it, as dearly as she missed Daddy. It was the pain she was afraid of. When the song ended, and she was alone again.

Well...it was just a night. And what if he came back and asked how the show was? That would be embarrassing. And worse off they might lose their best tipper.

Turning back to the desk, she picked up her phone and quickly swiped the screen open. "Hey! Hey Meg. Do you still have those black suede heels? Can I borrow them?"

* * *

The drive to Jersey City was treacherous. It was the part of Jersey that was swamped with New Yorkers who drove like it was still New York. And in her father's old car, it was a bit of an ordeal. In the end Christine had pulled over, pulled off her stockings and heels, and drove barefoot in case aggressive maneuvering was needed. When she got to the parking lot, she redressed her legs and headed towards the building. Her ticket was scanned by a very nice young man who called her ma'am and gave her a little bow.

The inside of the theater was just as spectacular as the pictures showed. The candelabras looked like real gas lamps, but gave off no heat behind their glittering cage. The cut of the covers sent splendid light throughout the room, and she spent a few moments observing it, to figure out the illusion. How did the bulb flicker so convincingly? And that was just the lighting!

All at once the old rushes came back to her, the feeling of being oh so proper and lovely just by being here among the other finely dressed people. She hoped her tea length dress wasn't too plain. She had dressed it up with her mother's diamond pendant, and even a pair of lace gloves. Though the heels were a bit of a trick. They fit fine enough, she and Meg were only a half size different. But after years rocking differently styled sneakers it was a bit treacherous. She bought a program to add to her collection that had had no additions besides dust for years. As she marveled over the pretty picture they used for the glossy cover, she stepped in line for the queue to enter the main theater.

Handing her ticket to the usher he frowned. "Ma'am this can't be right."

Her heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry?"

"Box five doesn't have tickets."

Christine would have happily disappeared into smoke right there. Had that masked lunatic played a horrible prank on her. "I-I don't understand? It was a gift."

"Give me one moment," he said, giving her a smile and the usual customer service platitude: "And I'll see if I can't clear this up, okay?"

Standing there, blushing horribly, she felt like everyone could see and would know that she had tried to enter with a bogus ticket. She kept her head down and waited by the stairs, well out of the way. In a another few minutes she was going to run from the building and call Meg for a good cry. Maybe Detective Khan to demand he give a very colorful message to Erik. Or maybe she would wait and drop cleaner tablets in his cold brew. There was an idea...

The usher returned with a short middle aged man in tow. "Forgive me, Ma'am. There's been a mix up."

"No it's okay. I'll just go," she said, her mortification complete. But the man quickly stepped in her path.

"On our part. I apologize for your discomfort. I'm the usher manager and I apologize for our mistake. You see, box five is always subscribed to, it has a season pass. But I was alerted that the pass holder had given up his ticket for this opera tonight."

"Oh." Christine felt relief flood her, and lifted her eyes heavenward for a moment.  _I'm sorry for mentally calling Erik a bean pole bastard in my mind. And for contemplating poisoning._  It also made her feel a bit better that he had given her his ticket from a subscription, rather than buy it special. A second hand seat he didn't want was better than a full priced seat he was gifting. "No, it's totally fine. Don't worry about it Mr...?"

"Jules." He shook her hand, and gestured for her to climb the stairs. "Please allow me to personally show you to your seat."

Now she really did feel like a proper lady. The last time she had been in a theater was as a student and it hadn't been at all glamorous. They had sat up nearly in the rafters, and most of the time she and the other students were listening for technicalities rather than for beauty. Before then it was as a child, and she had always loved the feeling of tradition and ceremony dressing up to listen to her father play in the orchestra, with her frills, clinging to her mother's satin gown skirts.

Carefully they ascended the stars to the box, Christine practically clinging to the railing. Three years and some living in sneakers made these things feel like stilts. Mr. Jules took out a key for the door to box five. Leaning back, Christine saw that all of the other boxes had curtains that sectioned them off from the light of the hall. No doors but this one.

The heavy door swung open, and Jules entered first, making sure it was all prepared for her: a large chair with a gilt footstool. Christine felt unease again, because what box had its own lovely chair, instead of the standard theater seats? Or maybe she had never been to this nice a theater before...

She smiled and rifled through her purse for a tip. Jules stopped her with a little laugh. "My pleasure. Please sit, Miss Christine."

"Oh-" But he was gone before she could ask how he knew her name. Erik must have called a head, she rationalized, taking her seat. She nearly sunk into the plush velvet and sighed, happy to get off her already aching feet. After a moment she propped them up on the foot stool and grinned.

The box was practically on the stage, and while it wasn't the best for being totally immersed in the story, it was excellent for observing the stage craft and skill. He reached forward and moved back the heavy red curtain that seemed to cover most of the box. Someone must have forgotten to tie it back. As she searched for the gold rope to keep it to the side she saw a little shelf on the wall behind her chair. On it, where patrons might store their bags, was a little piece of paper that said " _Christine_ ".

Oh boy.

Taking it, she flipped the-was this parchment?-leaf over and read the message.

_Please enjoy the show. I would like to know your thoughts afterwards._

She raised her brows. Her thoughts? She had only mentioned she sung in school once. This was a lot for a passing comment. Then again, she was sitting in a seat gifted by a man wearing a mask. If there was time to question the oddity of the situation it was long passed.  _Just sit back and enjoy the free show_ , Meg's voice murmured in her head.  _Free show!_

The lights gently twinkled signalling the beginning of the first act. Tucking the note in her purse, she returned to her seat.

* * *

The thunderous applause jarred Christine. She sat up, her body lethargic and heavy, as if the beauty of the show still wrapped her in it's warm embrace, unwilling to let her go. And she was unwilling  _to_ go. As suspected, from up close she could see every detail of stagecraft, the makeup and costumes, the scene changes (with the sets somehow looking like they melted from one set to another how did that happen?), and every step of the actors. She had watched with a learned eye, but so starved of music was she that the melodies had quite swept her up in it's spell.

Instead of watching like a teacher ready to grade, she had leaned forward and placed her arms on the box's edge, chin on her hands and watched. She hadn't even gotten up for intermission, not that she wanted to be stuffed into the crowded looking ballroom with the East Coast glitterati.

It was just as good as she remembered, the experience and the show. Though the soprano, the princess, had been rather screetchy. It was the only thing that had snapped her out of the experience from time to time. But other than that she had felt like...

Like she was home again.

She got up and stretched, smiling. She hummed a few lines of music, her favorite from the third act, and sighed. She heard the sigh echo behind her, and jumped a little. Even the box had good acoustics. Ah, that must have been it! She snapped her fingers, happy to have figured it out. This box was special because of the sound, that's why it was so expensive!

That mystery solved, she headed out to do battle once more in the streets of the city.

"So how was it," was Meg's first question when she opened the door.

"Thanks, yeah it was hard driving in the city but I'm okay. How are you," Christine said, raising a brow and offering up the borrowed shoes. The girls entered the blissfully cool house, and Meg whistled over Christine's choice of dress.

"I bet you knocked his socks off!"

"I didn't see him. It wasn't a date Meg. He gave up his ticket for the night, from his subscription that's all. He did leave me a note though-"

"A romantic note?" Meg waggled her eyebrows.

Christine turned and flopped down on the couch, snorting. "Hardly. He wanted to know what I thought of the show. Basic polite note, don't get excited."

"I'm not, especially not until I see his face. Or his bank account. But if he's got an opera subscription-"

"Marguerite Giry," Christine cried throwing her hands up. "You are a gold digger!"

"Hell yeah," she laughed. "You think I want to work at the shop all my life?"

"You're going to inherit! You have a business degree!"

"That's worse case scenario, incase a millionaire doesn't show up" she said waving a hand. "So. The show?"

"It was wonderful." Christine picked at invisible fluff on her skirt.  _Here it comes._

"Make you wanna go back to it?"

"Yes." It was the honest answer. But... "I can't Meg. I can't go back and learn all the stuff Daddy did for a living, and hear them talk about timing and structure and dissect it until it's nothing but notes on paper when Dad made it so much more. I can't."

At least, in this one tiny area, Meg didn't push anymore. Instead she tossed the heels into the corner of the living room and flopped down beside her. "...Did you eat?"

"Not yet."

"Pizza and Sixteen Candles?"

Christine grinned. She may be crass, she may be a little shallow, but Meg always knew just how to end a night.

* * *

"Hey, Sarah Brightman!"

Christine jumped, and spun to peer through the shelves of coffee bags and supplies, the industrial spray she was using to clean dishes splashing her. "Yeah Sorelli?" Her cheeks were bright red. She couldn't help but hum Turandot for the rest of the week. The music lived again in her, melodies to match any mood she was in, any conversation she had. She heard it in the back of her head, and sometimes it was too loud, too beautiful, she had to hum!

"Music Angel is in the drive, Meg said you'd want to know."

"Oh yeah! Yeah! Hold on! Is there a line?"

"No just him."

"Hold him there!" She dried off her hands and hurried out onto the floor. She flung the window of the drive thru back, and practically tipped out of it, tripping over Meg in her haste. The Jag's door was open, and the gloved hand came out, almost as if to catch her. Opening the door a little more, she was able to see Erik. Still masked, his hair perfectly combed now. The leather interior of his car was cast in a dark light from the surely-not-legal-tinted windows, but she could see his coat folded over the passenger's seat with a silver money clip tossed carelessly on top.

"Whoa! Hi, there, hi! Sorry."

He nodded, sure now that she wasn't about to topple out of the window and into his car.

"Thank you for the ticket!"

"You enjoyed the show," he stated softly.

"I loved it! It's my favorite!"

"I thought so."

That gave her pause. "You...did?"

"I...you have...on your back pack. You have lyrics on it, written. I've seen it sometimes, when you leave."

Her mouth dropped open. That was true. Her work bag was old and she didn't mind bringing it because she didn't care if it got beat up. It was her old high school backpack and she did indeed have lyrics and patches covering every inch. He had probably seen her leaving one of her early shifts when he came, and would have seen her loading it into her car.

"You remember that," she laughed. She as probably tomato red by now.

"Yes. It's not my favorite, and...and you said you were a student of opera...and thus..." His shoulders hunched.

"I loved it! I adored it," she was hurry to assure, not wanting him to be embarrassed. It was pitiful when he was, such a grown man like him and obviously successful. And after doing something so kind.

"Did it make you want to go back?"

"You are just like Meg," Christine laughed, jabbing her thumb over he shoulder at the nosey blonde who was craning to hear the conversation. "She asked me the same thing!"

"Music is too wonderful to waste."

"You're right. But I have bills to pay. But still! It was wonderful. And wow! That theater!"

Now the man seemed to sit up straight. "You liked it," he asked, eyes glittering. He was even smiling.

"It was the most beautiful building I've ever seen!"

"Would you like to see inside it?"

Christine laughed. "I already did!"

"I mean the whole building."

"Like a tour? They have them? Do you know how they change scenes? Do they use mirrors? Can they tell or is it like a company secret?"

"They can." He glanced in the rearview mirror. A car pulled up to the speaker and the driver was ordering. "On Sunday. They can. After noon."

"Oh well..." She shifted. Now this really did sound like a date, or at least something other than a passing interest.

"I will understand if you don't," he said, softly again. "But I would be...honored, if you did." Then he nodded in way of goodbye and closed the door. She watched him a few moments after he left, a little shocked. Did he ask her out? Or, was he just a professional, wanting to encourage young aspiring people? Trying to encourage her back into music? Or maybe he was just as Detective Khan stated. An older man wanting to be kind but not sure how, overstepping social lines to do so.

"Hey, if you're not gonna work my window, get out of it," Meg teased tugging on her apron strings.

The interrogation came when Christine was on her lunch break. Meg, who was manager of the shift, pretended to count the inventory as she pestered. "Okay spill."

"You mean you couldn't hear? You were right next to us!"

"Yeah, but he whispers!"

"It was nothing. he asked if I liked the show."

"Oh come on, I know it as more than that! You practically flew out the window."

"I didn't want to miss him!"

"Christine." Meg ripped three brownies out of the freezer box, and tossed them on a tray to thaw. "Get real, now. None of this it's just being nice crap. Between the ticket and him at the window I haven't seen you this excited over something in ages. You're humming again, and smiling and excitable like a puppy. Like before."

"I get excited over stuff," she protested.

"Name something."

Well that had her stuck. It wasn't as if Christine was unhappy. Mostly. She had her interests, her favorite movies, she read and went shopping with what little money there was left over. She was older now though, not a kid anymore. Her excitement was more refined, she supposed. Less bubbly, less exuberant. "I got excited over that new Christian Bale movie."

"You said 'oh great, let's go see it' then forgot that we made the date a week later." Meg shook her head. "You were on the phone with me for an hour talking over shoes to wear to this friggin' show when no one but the ushers were even going to see you! C'mon, kid. You love this crap. Good crap, don't get me wrong, Music, and theater and all that: you love it."

She leaned against the fridge. "You can still love it without your parents being with you. You did at school. And since you won't go back to that, isn't this the next best thing?"

Christine lowered her head, staring at her red sneakers scuffing the linoleum floor. The thing was, she didn't want to enjoy it without her mother, or her father. She didn't want to feel that swept way joy, because it wasn't fair. She knew it was foolish, and a little dangerous, but she didn't want to feel much because they would never feel again.

"He offered me to tour the theater."

"No way!"

"And he gave me the ticket because he saw I had the lyrics written on my back pack a couple of times."

"Christine, holy crap! I can't even get Phillip to notice I've gotten a new jacket without specifically showing him, let alone him figuring it out from something as small as that!"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea. This is definitely, date-y. Right?" Meg had more experience than her. Christine had been a total devotee to her voice, and hadn't had time for boys. She had had the odd boyfriend here and there, usually during the summers, and there was her childhood crush Raoul. They had gone to grade school together, before his parents moved away to the rich side of town.

"Definitely date-y."

"Then I shouldn't go."

"Why not. I met Phillip though the store."

"Yeah but you wrote your number on his cup, and we saw him everyday."

"We see Angel everyday. And Detective Khan knows him. It's a small town, Christine. I'm sure it would be fine. Besides it's not like he said he'd be giving you the tour. Did he?"

"No he said the theater does on Sundays afternoon."

"It's settled then." Opening the freezer, she began to count this time for real. "We'll go shopping and pick you out a nice outfit and you're going if I have to drive you myself!"

They sat in silence or ten minutes more, nothing but the crunch of cardboard and plastic as Meg pulled out the empty containers breaking the stillness. Then-

"It would be cool to see how they rigged the staging to change so seamlessly," Christine mused.

"That's  _my girl_!"


	2. Chapter 2

Christine did not, indeed, have to have Meg drive her. They went out as planned and bought Christine a new outfit for the trip. Dark wash jeans and a blue peasant blouse that dropped off the shoulders. Christine did however, refuse to look at the theater's website for specific tour times. It as a safeguard for her cowardice. If she went down there and missed it, then she could back out. If she felt comfortable enough, she would always ask the times when she was there for the next tour.

That weasley plan in place, she decided to take the train down instead of the car, and save herself the heart attack. The building was just as beautiful as it had been all lit up that night. The white stones seemed to gleam in the sunlight now, making their pristine color eye catching. it stood out among the grey and brick colored buildings on either side of the street next to it.

She tested the front door and found it opened, surprisingly. Devoid of people, the entrance to the theater yawned before her, large and imposing. A circular entrance hall, thick red carpet on the floor with white marbled walls. A vaulted ceiling stretched over her, the crystal arabic lamps hanging from it glittering softly in the morning light. Every move she made sounded loud to her own ears. The program stand selling pictures and soundtracks was unlight, the posters taken down for the day and there was an usher vacuuming the carpet. Ah. She had missed it.

"Miss Christine," the boy said, turning off the vacuum.

"Uh...yeah. How did you-"

"Mr. Jules is waiting for you. Just a moment I'll grab him." With a polite smile the young man hurried off. Mr. Jules? The same Mr. Jules who was the head usher? Christine frowned. Erik hadn't arranged for a tour just for her had he?

She had little time to ponder before the short round man was coming towards her from an office, grinning. "Nice to see you again, Miss Christine."

"Uh-hi? Yes it is nice to see you too. But how did you know I was coming? I didn't sign up for the tour-"

Jules smirked, shaking his head. "Of course not. The owner told me you were coming. I'm very glad too, he doesn't usually like anyone but staff in his theater when there's not a performance going on."

Christine had a sinking feeling she could identify just who owned this theater. "Oh boy."

"Indeed. I was surprised, but not unhappily. I'm glad-" He seemed to stop himself. "Well, if you want to leave your things here, I can start to show you around."

The tour started in the ballroom, which Christine had certainly missed. A pity too because it was jaw dropping. The walls were reflective gold, and a whole rounded wall was made of glass french doors leading out into a garden that had the same white glass arabic-style lanterns dotting the pathways. In the sunlight it the whole room glittered, sending glints off the floor, which had a fresco of what looked like important scenes from several different operas. She was currently standing on Aida, draped in the arms of her beloved.

From there she was shown back stage into the costume room, which made her want to fall into the voluminous skirts and silks of the dresses, and she had a hard time keeping her hands to herself. From there the prop room and finally the stage. Jules was very learned about every part of the theater, an effective guide for a head usher, Christine complimented. "I have to be, to keep up with the boss. He doesn't explain much and expects a lot. The thing I cannot explain however, is the rigging." He laughed at her look.

"How did you know I was going to ask," she said, smirking. She knew damn well how Jules would know. And she was wavering between impressed at the building and abject fear that a rich important masked opera owner was pulling strings for her.

"Everyone asks. It's really impressive. He used mirrors but I don't understand it even after all these years."

"He-you speak like the owner built this place. Did he?" At Jules' nod she whistled low, and her stomach sunk lower. Oh boy, oh boy was she in hot water if this was his idea of a date-y evening. There was going to be some expectation of her, in repayment. And more than just a polite thank you. That feeling only worsened when Jules said,

"Let me get him. He's in his...office. He can explain it to you. He wanted to see you before you left anyway." But instead of walking back to the front of house through the isles, he disappeared behind one of the main scenes behind the stage. Christine twisted the bell sleeves of her top, nervously, spinning slowly on stage.

It looked so much bigger from here. And even though the lights weren't on and she was alone, she felt her heart pound. She looked out at the hundreds of seats, imagining people in them, staring up at her breathless with expectations. She had only been on stage in her choir before-she hadn't finished out her schooling enough to audition solo. It had been flattering, but she had been one of many faces. If they came to see her, Christine Daae-

Diva.

She hung her head. No, not after her last year at school. She had almost flunked out. Her voice hadn't carried her grades that was sure. If she truly had some amazing gift, wouldn't it have still been beautiful in grief? Or maybe the worse was true: she was just above average. She didn't have some special gift, not more special than other gifts, like her father and mother said. She wasn't blessed by music.

Still...when would she have another chance like this, all by herself? Going to the lip of the stage, she mulled over what to sing. Something short and easy that wasn't loud enough to catch attention. She took a deep breath-from the diaphragm like a good soprano-and began  _In The Air Tonight_.

It was an old favorite, and before she had loved the smooth undertone of the synth against the quiet lonely sound of the lyrics. But now she could understand the depth of grief it took to put such words to paper. And the gloom of the song touched her mood. Like sucking poison from a wound, she was able to wind that sadness into the words, and through the effort and concentration to carry them to the back of the room despite it being in her lower register, her spirits lifted. Even if it was only her ears, she still sounded decent.

" _Well I remember! I remember, don't worry./How could I ever forget?/It's the first time, the last time we ever met_." Christine closed her eyes and gripped her fingers into fists, pressing them to her chest. Her nose was a little clogged from the beginning of tears the song brought, but it was easily sniffed away. Christine stamped the heels of her boot against the stage to simulate the sudden introduction of drums before flinging herself into the crescendo:

" _I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord!/But I've been waiting for this moment all my life, oh lord!_ "

Her body swayed and she could hear the beat in her mind, the steady drums that she could feel in her chest as she sung, arms still stretched to the invisible crowd. She came back to herself in degrees, her voice going soft, now hurting a little with the sudden use without warming up. Finger combing her hair back, she lifted her head and wondered where Jules was-before shouting in freight.

Erik stood in box five, both hands gripping the edge of the box in what might have been a white knuckle grip if she could see. But he was still wearing his gloves. He seemed unable to move, even at her exclamation of surprise, except to pant slightly.

"You have got to stop doing that," she said with a little laugh. "You are seriously going to stop my heart."

"I knew you could."

"Sing? I told you that."

"That wasn't just...!" He stood and turned, quicker than a flash from the box. She was worried for a second that she had offended him, until she saw him hurry down the stairs stage right. He moved so fast and so noiselessly he could have been a ghost. But as he came towards her on the stage he had all the grace of a dancer, as if each movement melted into the next. He went to lean against a wood tree, a hand on his trunk as if it was keeping him up. After a moment, he smoothed back his hair, hands falling to tug his vest straight. The motion seemed to change his entire person, from panting wide eyed excitement to...gentleman. "That was not just singing. The instrument that you have!"

"I'm not that good," Christine demurred, more than embarrassed now. This was more than a startling change from the quiet man who had flinched even at her smiles. Now he seemed to be brimming with emotion, his body tense like a bow with the effort to keep it in. "I certainly didn't know I had an audience!"

"But the pitch, the sound the clarity, you have a gift-a gift! It is not just anything!" He seemed to spit the word. Or he would have-she was so used to seeing him wear a mask that she hadn't realized that this one covered his whole face, an emotionless black, that blended into the rest of his clothing. And what clothing-black shirtsleeves, black waistcoat, and pressed trousers. Like he stepped out of one of Meg's trashy novels; though he certainly wasn't trashy.

"Well...there's no reason to argue about it," Christine said diplomatically, the same way she treated her friend when she was a little too angry or a little too tipsy. Calm and slow.

"You m-" He lifted a hand to his mask and adjusted it looking away for a moment. After a deep breath his voice returned to the quiet murmur he used in the store. "Why did you stop your schooling?"

She looked down at her feet. Well it wasn't like it was a secret. "My father died. I had to come home and put things in order, and it took away from my studies. I didn't want to officially flunk out, so I stopped all together." She shrugged. "And I never went back. I had to live somewhere, and to do that I had to work."

Behind the gaping eyeholes of his mask the mismatched yellow eyes narrowed. "And there were no grants to be had? No scholarships? No loans?"

"I don't like being in debt."

Erik lifted himself up to his full height-an impressive one at that-and said, "If you will not be totally honest with me then...then I shall not tell you how the scenes change!" My how childish he sounded, even with his beautifully deep voice.

Christine raised her brows and folded her arms. "Really? You're holding my curiosity hostage?"

"Yes-because I believe you are a desperately curious thing, thus why you came to the opera. Thus why you are here." He matched her pose, but after a second of silence he admitted, "and it is all I have."

"Why do you want to know so badly? Why-" She took a step forward, and he mirrored her darkly, sliding back as if she were rushing him. Back again where those hunched shoulders, the curling inward as if to make his impressive thin form smaller. "Why did you give me your ticket? Why did you invite me on this tour?"

"I...had my suspicions about you. And I am usually right in this sense." He looked up at the wooden tree as if suddenly finding it amazingly interesting. "And...After knowing you were once a student, I began to notice you more. You hum when you work, and it's lovely. And you have good pitch. You even talk well."

"Talk well," she snorted.

"Yes. Most are too loud, or too quiet. You speak well, clearly and confidently." He inspected one of the cloth leaves hanging and giving shade to the wooden floor boards below. "And you are very kind." This was almost a whisper.

And that was what broke her. Because he said it in such a way that made her understand: he wasn't used to much kindness. Not the real genuine selfless kind. Even if it was as simple as a remembering a return customer for more than his money, which she wasn't sure she did for him entirely. "Thank you," she said softly her cheeks coloring.

He seemed to know he had won. His mismatched eyes turned on her again. "Why did you not continue?"

"...I missed my father too much. He was a violinist. Charles Daae I don't know if you have heard of-"

"I have heard him play," Erik said suddenly. "Once, first violin in an orchestra. He was exceptionally skilled, that is why I remember his name."

She nodded. It was another reason why she had quit. When Daddy was alive, being Charles Daae's daughter The Singer was a badge of pride. After...well she became Charles Daae's orphan, and everyone wanted to press stories and memories of her on him, as if she did not have enough to make her remember. And mourn.

"He passed. And...and the light went out of music. Out of this instrument you seem to like." She shrugged. "Then it became all breathing, and tempo, and notes and parts and pieces. I mean I know you have to learn it, it's apart of the mastery, and it is a craft but I felt like a machine, like a music box and...and this is really personal. Okay?"

At last, he nodded. He looked down at the floor as she spoke, sparing her a look of pity. She was grateful. "Of course. Music is personal. I...am sorry for your loss. Thank you for telling me."

Christine nodded and leaned back on her heels. "So uh...right. The scene changes. Yeah? You're gonna tell me?"

"In a moment-"

"Oh come on, just threw my heart at your feet, have mercy!" She smiled, tried to joke, but she saw him close his eyes as if in pain. "Sorry."

"Do not be," he replied clearly. "No, do not be. You were very good to tell me that, and I do owe you. But I want...I want to ask you just one more thing." Christine waited, opening her hands as if to say  _so ask_. He knew her worst pain, what else could he ask? "If...if music could be more again-if you could learn, and learn in a way that wasn't mechanics all of the time, would you?"

"I..." She was taken aback. "I don't know. I think it's just me mostly."

"Yes but when you saw the opera, you felt it again. The music, you felt it in your soul, didn't you? If you could learn and still feel that, would you?"

"...Maybe? I suppose. But I don't have any money to do so, and the grants and stuff that's long over with I've been gone too long."

"I wouldn't charge you."

Now she was down right floored, and she almost met it. Thankfully there was a stone bench in this little fake garden for her to sink onto. "You? You want to teach me?"

"Your voice-please believe me when I say I have never heard another like it. Now it is your turn to have mercy. You heard Charlotte last week?"

"She was in  _Turandot_? The lead-"

"Yes. What did you think of her?"

"She is well trained. Alright, she screeches," Christine relented hen he waved her first kind observation away with a frustrated gesture. Christine never liked to critique people who only tried their best.

"Yes, she screeches, like a tire on asphalt and the manager will not be rid of her!"

"You're the owner, fire her."

"I own the land, and part of the building, and I have some sway but not entirely. Not anymore." He said bitterly, folding his arms and huffing like a walrus. "She comes from Spain, calls herself Carlotta, and is very famous. She brings in ticket sales and is like a needle rattling in your ear."

"Well..." Maybe he was a little harsh, but he wasn't  _entirely_ wrong.

"So to hear you! Ah, your voice is like a bell. But it is untrained, or at least out of practise. But if I could teach you-"

"You want to teach me to out a soprano you don't like," she asked, standing and putting her hands on her hips. "It wasn't very complimentary."

"No. No I want to teach you so I may hear you sing," he said simply, arms unfolding to spread entreatingly. It made her blush from her neck to her roots. Just to hear her sing, it sounded very romantic very soon. "If you take my teachings and go far and above this opera house-well then. It is your due!"

"Far and beyond-I haven't even agreed yet, you know. I don't even really know who you are." She tapped her cheek, indicating his mask.

His hands flew to it, and he took another step back. "You will not see Erik's face. I cannot show you. I have my reasons, and they are very good reasons. If you want you can ask Nadir Khan and he will tell you that there are good reasons. You trust him enough."

"I do? He told you then I asked about you."

"Yes. Understandably. You're a young woman, you must be careful."

"You're right I must. Like being careful of men that offer candy and singing lessons."

"...I did not offer sweets," he mused, confused.

"It's a joke. Nevermind. Alright. If you wear the mask all the time I'll just assume you have a good reason." Maybe he was famous, and it was a clever way to avoid attention while he ran the opera house. Or maybe he had a light sensitive skin condition. Who knew. "But if you're going to teach me, and I haven't agreed yet, how do I know you're qualified to do so?"

Erik stood tall again, and she knew instinctively that he was grinning. Everything about his posture spoke of smug happiness. "That I can prove! Stay here." He turned towards the stairs again, and glanced back once, to make sure she stayed put.

Christine rolled her eyes and plopped down onto the hard wood of the stage, as if to prove that she wouldn't budge. He disappeared again, and Christine tried straining to hear footsteps or anything. Nothing, but the faint noise of the vacuum cleaner from the main hall.

Just when she was about to stand up and call his name, she heard the first note of a violin. And then she was transported.

Glued to the stage, she closed her eyes and swayed, utterly taken in by the music Erik-for she assumed it was Erik-produced from simple violin strings. The melody was complex, she could almost see his hands fly over the fingerboard, pressing a half second before the note was wrung from the strings.

And he began to sing.

Oh, the love that was poured into that playing, the sound of his voice! The soft sighs and loud ringing notes of the song made her soul rise with it. She had heard beautiful music before, and her father's violin had alway brought her to new and different fairylands of stories and tales made of song. But with this, she was truly swept away, until she was no longer Christine, no longer human, nothing but what the song made her. She was simply a creature of feeling, a creature made to hear these notes and rejoice.

It took eons for her to realize that the music had stopped. She opened her eyes, and found that there were dark spots on her knees, where her tears had fallen on her jeans. She hadn't even noticed how her face flushed, and the sting that preluded crying. She wiped her nose and eyes on her sleeve, and took a shuddering breath.

And he, with that voice, wanted to hear  _her_ sing?

She heard the rustle of the curtain and knew he as coming back. But instead of slipping back onto the stage like the dancer before, he strutted, spinning his bow by the crux of the frog. That black masked head wagged on his shoulders in the height of hubris, for he knew just what he did. "What say you," he demanded, pointing the bow in her direction.

"I say I need some time to think," Christine said, sniffing again before getting to her feet. Her knees were a little weak, and she felt...empty without his song.

"Think! Think? Did I not prove my worth? Did you not like it? I play you the human spirit, I wrap you in notes and you still need to think?"

"Yes. Because I don't have unlimited time," she pointed out. "I have a job and I'm not half as convinced as you are about my talent. And it's a lot of money coming down here-"

"Erik will cover your coast. A pass, for the bus or train or what you need," he interrupted. Though he sounded unsure, whether about the amount of money or how the trains worked she wasn't sure. The third person narration wasn't helping all that much either.

"You are really determined."

"Enough time has been wasted, thankfully I found you while you are still relatively young. Any longer and I might not have been able to salvage your talent."

Even though he was right, and Christine knew he was right, it didn't sting anyless. "Is this a date?"

That took his breath away. He stopped, letting out a short choked noise, leaning slightly as if he stopped short while walking. "A date? Courtship?" She nodded and he brought his violin up to his chest, hugging it like a shield. "No! No, no  _dating_! No-did you think Erik meant to  _seduce_ you?!"

She gestured around the stage. "Opera, free tickets, a tour, serenading me. It's not so off base," Christine muttered the sting increasing since he seemed not only shocked by the idea but adverse. She wasn't so ugly was she?

"Then I apologize, most  _profusely_ ," he said coming towards her, bending to where she was still sitting. "I apologize, ma'am. Erik would never impose on you in such a way, never have such expectations of you! I will try my best, in future to ease and avoid such discomfort-I swear it!" Now those wide gold eyes were pleading, begging to be believed. She wondered if she stayed silent if he would actually get on his knees. She would not like that at all.

"I'm not-I'm not uncomfortable. I was a little nervous that I might be leading you on just to satisfy my  _undeniable_ curiosity." She tossed his words back at him, smirking. He straightened and huffed again.

"How long will you need to  _think_?"

"A week-I have work," Christine cried hearing his quick intake of breath to argue. "I have to earn my keep and all until I become the next Maria Callas."

He seemed to, like her previous jokes, take her seriously. Nodding he walked away and she felt a little sad that he seemed to have forgotten his side of the agreement. Then came the clicks of a violin case, and her heart stuttered a little. She hadn't even heard that alone in her apartment. She had taken her father's violin and placed it in the trunk with his orchestra tuxedos and old college t shirts. Christine forgot how much she missed that simple sound.

Erik returned and threw his arms open wide, the showman once more. "And now! The magic of the stage. And let us see if I cannot gain your consent forthwith!"

* * *

Christine did not, in fact, agree to lessons after the show. And it was a show. He brought her up into the rafters first to get a birds-eye view. There she saw the mirrors that spun on axles, and the gears to turn them. That with a bit of light play made the scene changes seem to melt into one another, like film transitions brought to life. He showed her once, in the rafters, and then once from a place on the stage. It still made her head hurt to figure out and she felt that, in the end, she and Jules would just have to nod in awe of it.

Before he left her go, not walking her to the door, he stopped her halfway up the aisle with a soft call. "Christine, something else to  _think_ on."

"You really hate that word."

"Not usually. I prefer the people I have...near to think. But think on this: how would it feel to create again?"

And it had, as he probably knew it would, stuck with her. Create. It was hard to think of submitting to lessons at creation, but like an artist given pen and paper, it would give her the tools to create. To sing, to produce art. To be the sweeper and not just the swept away. To join that society of people who wove sounds like a loomer weaves thread and create a story, a feeling, of beauty.

It was like the first moment you became the creator of Santa to someone younger even if you no longer believed. Suddenly, this old story was yours to give to someone wide eyed and trusting. Suddenly you were the one to spin the tale, to take all those feelings of warmth and wonder and place it on the next generation like a mantle, even if it was just a wink or to ask what they asked the long revered saint for for Christmas.

When her father was alive, and she had began her training in music, it felt like that. Like she was apart of something, passing on something, keeping the motion of music going. He had entertained her with his songs and stories, and when she found she could sing, began to join him. He had been so proud when she had dedicated herself to the craft. Soon they weren't just Daddy-daughter. They were partners, talking sound and technique. When he died, so soon after her mother, music, life, and emotion had screeched to a halt.

If she seemed pensive Meg did not mention it. They were deep into the summer and their rushes were random and intense throughout the day. Everyone went home tired. After soaking her feet, she would tap on her laptop and try searching up this Erik. She could ask Detective Kahn but she didn't want to keep running to him for advice. He was just a jovial customer after all. It seemed rude.

But Christine didn't get very far. Putting 'Erik' and the 'Mazenderan Theater' in the same searched only brought up public records of permits. She did learn his last name was Khan, oddly enough. She wondered if they were related, maybe distant cousins? The detective wore a wedding band, brothers in law?

She closed her computer and looked around her bare bones apartment. It's not like she had nothing to do! She read and she watched movies here...by herself. She did go out with Meg, but going to bars or third wheeling dates wasn't her idea of fun. Oh she had plenty of great memories, but it was a wonderful exception not the rule. Christine chewed her lip.

She had always been a quiet child, always living in a realm of fantasy. She would spend hours in her bedroom, an only child, dressing up as queens and fairies and lions and anything else that struck her fancy as she play acted her simple stories full of scenes from books and movies she had just read. Each new tale from her father or the tapes he brought her gave her a little more understanding, from sympathetic villains or flawed heroes, complex stories or the sweet simple joy of a good old knight versus dragon.

When Raoul had lived next door he had found it a wonderful escape. His parents were always telling him to grow up, putting him through summer courses, rigidly monitoring his play time and what he consumed by mouth or brain. Coming over to the Daae's meant laughter for him, and freedom, and fun. Maybe that's when she had first felt it, that creation and storytelling. Pulling this towheaded child into her world of make believe and trust despite his parents trying to force him into the skepticism of the world.

Looking back she thought he had been the blessed one, and she the duped. Christine winced at her own bitterness. Alright, her father hadn't duped her per say. But he'd coddled her, leaving her without the tools she needed to grow up. He made her fall in love with the innocence of childhood, something that the world loathed. He'd left her vulnerable.

And music was irrevocably linked to that. It was linked to so many aspects of her life. But wouldn't it be grand if it wasn't? If she could view it as a calculating adult, and both with the breathless wonder of a child, like she had at the theater. Could he show her that middle ground?

She thought of Erik and his abnormal wear and speech. If he taught like he talked she wasn't going to be a child again, in the attic listening to the violin as she read fairy tales. He had called her voice and instrument, and the mastery of his own foretold her that he wasn't going to be easy on her. But he did indeed understand the magic of music.

In the end, the shrewd part of her that had been born from piling bills and suddenly being homeless was what drove her to call the opera. Free lessons and a free bus pass? Who as going to offer her better? As the phone rang, she almost hung up, chastising herself for thinking someone would be there so late.

"Mazandaran Theater, how may I help you today?"

"Ah-oh, is Mr. Jules there?"

"Yes," the woman on the other end said slowly. Obviously this was the number just for talking about ticket sales and opera questions. "May I ask who is calling?"

"Christine Daae-I came for one of the tours and he will remember me."

"The tours...? Um, hold on one moment please, ma'am."

Christine frowned into the phone handle. Then she wondered if there being tours was a thing at all. Closing her eyes she berated herself for being so stupid. Of course there wasn't. Erik owned the opera house and Jules worked for him. He could have her come and go as he wished.

"Miss Daae?" Jules sounded happy to hear her.

"Hi! Mr. Khan around?"

"Uh...Detective Khan doesn't work here."

"I meant Erik Khan?"

"Er-Oh! Yes, but he is busy. I was told to keep an ear out for you."

"Well I don't need to talk to him, just tell him I agree and I just need a time."

"Five o'clock on Monday," was his immediate answer. At her silence, he chuckled. "That's what he told me to tell you."

"He is determined, I tell you."

Another laugh. "He's like that. Anything else?"

"No. Thank you Mr. Jules."

"Really, Miss Daae. It's my pleasure. Truly."

* * *

Monday came way too quickly. She worked an early shift and alerted Mrs. Giry that she might be changing her schedule soon. In the backroom office the older woman smiled and assured her it was no problem. "What's the change?"

"I'm picking up some extra work."

"Oh sweetie, if you need hours," then she pitched her voice low, "Or money, you only had to come to me."

"No, it's more like volunteer work. Nothing big. It might not even last long." She waved a hand. "Promise. Everything's fine!"

"Well if you're sure, I can put off next week's schedule until tomorrow."

She was nervous as she made the half hour journey back to Jersey City. She had dressed in her old college t-shirt and comfortable jeans. She hadn't truly practised singing in a few years, and she's rather be as comfortable as possible if she was about to relearn everything and wake up her lazy throat. Of course the moment she entered the theater she felt underdressed.

Erik was standing on the now cleared stage, a piano in the middle, staring at his pocket watch. He as in his black shirtsleeves again, this time a crimson brocade vest fitted to his slender form. Happily-if it could be happy-he wore a white mask that exposed his mouth. She's hate to talk all night to that blank expression again.

"You came."

"I said I would."

"I'm not used to believing only words." He watched her climb up the stage and looked her over, his gaze lingering on her shirt. She knew he was not thinking it, probably just reading the college name, but she flushed a little knowing that under this shirt she wore a simple bralette instead of the underwire contraption that made her shirts look nice and her back ache less.

"I wanted to be able to breathe freely. I thought it better than looking pretty. But I'll dress if you want."

"No, you are quite correct. Your focus will be entirely on your music, and nothing else."

She bristled a little at the commanding tone and the assumption that she would obey, but then remembered a few choice professors from the conservatory. Often genius came with a bad attitude. "Alright."

"Now." He swept to the piano, but did not place his hands on the keys. "Your diet. Tell me what it is."

She winced, knowing exactly where this was going. She had seen the diets of the high achievers at school and she had once been one of them. "...Coffee in the morning and a lot of it. With milk. And I do have my fair share of soda. I didn't think I'd ever sing seriously again," she explained at his narrowed eyes.

"Well I am glad to know that you  _are_ aware you are not helping yourself. I assume you know what to switch to? If you do not cater and treat your instrument well then it will not work for you. An out of tune piano will play horribly no matter the skill of the player."

"I'll cut back."

"Stop all together, if you please."

"Stop?" She put her hands on her hips. "That's rich, coming from you, Mr. Cold Brew, Two Shots! Do you know how much caffeine is in that?"

"Erik is older than you," he pointed out. "And has taken much better care of his voice for longer, and he treats it well after consuming. But your voice is out of practice. Please, let us give my lessons a...fighting chance as it were."

Christine ran her tongue over her teeth, wanting to argue more, but nodded anyway. He may be able to withstand the heart attack that espresso gave, but she had to admit she was getting close to addicted to the coffee. She had to have a cup to get her through opening...and closing...and-well. Switching it up might do her more good than just singing.

"And you will sleep eight hours a night."

"That's not always possible!"

"While you hold this other occupation perhaps, but you will at least try. And you will come here three times a week."

"Three!"

"Must you have an echo for every statement Erik utters," he cut across, with another loud huff. "Yes three! We have serious work to do! Not only must we shake off the dust from your training, but we must push hard to catch up to where you should be if you ever hope to sing on this stage!"

He seemed determined that this would be the gateway into a career for her. She wasn't so sure, but she was certain that voicing her doubt would lead to a lecture. And noticing how long winded he tended to be, she didn't want that either. He was tough, but...these weren't unreasonable expectations for a serious student, which he deemed her. She was simply out of habit. But that didn't stop her from smiling and answering, "Yes."

Christine could have imagined it, but she might have seen his lips twitch, as if fighting a smile. "Scales." Then his fingers were on the piano.

Her voice ached within minutes, and still he pushed her. He had three large water bottles prepared and seemed to be attuned to her needs by the sound of her voice, telling her to drink just when she wished to wet her lips, or to rest when she felt the pull of the notes becoming too much. After warming up he decided to have her sing  _In The Air Tonight_.

"I looked up the music," he said pulling a sheet of staff paper out, with hand written notes on it. "And since you seem to know it we shall work on that until I can figure out where you need the most improvement."

"You had to look it up? Not a fan?"

"Of whom," he asked arranging the sheet music.

"Phil Collins?"

"I do not know him."

Her jaw dropped. "You don't know him? It's one of his most famous songs! He-he wrote the Tarzan soundtrack!  _You'll Be In My Heart_?"

"Indeed? I have little use for modern music. Drink and let us begin."

Christine shook her head. Little use for modern music indeed! "Who do you you listen to? Is classical all you play?"

Erik seemed to want to huff again, but turned to face her. "Yes. Music that takes skill and mastery of the craft. And before you have anymore questions, drink." He played the opening note for her, then stood and gestured for her to sing. She had gotten to 'feel' before she felt the tip of the conductor's baton under her chin. "Up," he said. Where had he even gotten that thing? She reached up to push his hand holding the baton away, and it retracted suddenly, as if he feared being burned.

"Head up. Drop your shoulders and take a deeper breath to sustain the last note. Your knees are also locked."

Again he played the first note, and again she started, with him slowly circling her. He stopped her a few more times, before her muscle memory kicked in. He continued his vulture's circles, throwing out commands but no loner interrupting her. In the end he listed the long itinerary of what needed to be fixed.

Christine blushed. She knew she was out of practice but she hadn't thought she was so bad. Erik hesitated and said, "It is now six o clock. Rome was not built in an hour. But it ended up as a glittering city by the end of the work." And with that, the gloom lifted slightly. Not exactly a compliment but...

He was tough, but at least he was in some sense fair.

"You may leave now. Your life will be missing you."

She gathered up the empty water bottles and her bag. "Thank you, Mr. Khan."

At that he stiffened, his freezing as he collected his music sheets. His head was the only part that moved as it swung towards her. "Who?"

"Your last name is Khan, isn't it? At least the permit papers said this land was owned by an Erik Khan."

"You looked me up," he said, voice rough and cold.

She hesitated, suddenly feeling guilty, like she had read his diary. "Yes. I wanted to know who I was going to be spending three hours a week with. Of course I looked you up."

"You w-" His teeth clicked as he shut his mouth around the command. "...I ask that you not spread information about me. To anyone. Indeed I think it best if these lessons continued to be private. If the fool who runs this theater caught wind, or anyone else, it would be a terrible distraction to our work."

"Would they try to stop you from supplanting Carlotta?"

"Among other things."

"Alright then." Detective Khan had indicated he as odd. And he did seem a strictly private man. And perhaps...it wasn't the worse idea. Her whole body went cold, thinking of telling anyone that she was singing again. The questions would start,  _when will you go back to school? Will you sing live?_  All the things that came with it. She did not want that. "But I can't call you by you Erik. Not if you're my teacher it doesn't feel right or respectful."

"Then you may call me maestro. That is what I am now."

"Maestro," she repeated. "That fits. Then thank you Maestro."

He turned to face her completely. Without the music, he stood awkwardly again, like he had when he inspected the tree rather than face her as they talked. They stayed like that for a moment before he spoke.

"Your voice is unlike anything I have heard. When I heard you humming in the shop, I felt as if an angel caught my ear. Out of tune, yes. Our of practise, but beautiful. You must have patience with it. And with your Maestro. I have never taught before." His hands tightened on his music and she heard the crinkle of paper in his fists.

_You are kind_ , he had told her. You are kind, that was the reason he had decided to reach out to her. She wondered if she had been acidic and indifferent to him, would her beautiful voice still have compelled him to reach out? She took an educated guess in the negative, and felt her heart twist a bit. It took nothing, nothing at all to be a little kind to people. She had been taught that by her parents, who had always done everything to help others-from taking in Raoul at times to even helping Mrs. Giry with her start up business.

She took a step towards him and he retracted again, hand going to plant itself on the piano as he backed up. Christine halted her advance. "So...we'll have to learn together then," she concluded.

His eyes widened slightly. Her maestro was always so shocked when it came to simple interactions when he wasn't filled with emotion. "Together," he breathed. "Yes. You are correct."

"Goodnight then, Maestro."

"Goodnight, Christine."


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time since the funeral, Christine felt like there were not enough hours in the day. Her new lessons didn't give her the confidence to slack off at the cafe. And after a full shift, her lessons did not always limit themselves to one hour. Some days she made it back to her apartment and simply fell onto her bed, asleep almost before her body hit.

Maestro Erik was just as tough as day one, and he told her that she must practise even when she was not at the opera, which she eventually did. She stopped all coffee and returned to her old favorite decaf tea with honey. The taste was filled with memories of a life with purpose, and just the aroma and familiar habit seemed to warm her everyday. It was like climbing into your old bed, wrapped in your favorite blanket. There was comfort in her old routines and happily they no longer came with the sting of memory.

And she needed it. For all Erik was awkward and shy outside of singing, he was hard and sharp while teaching. He craved perfection, and when he did not achieve it, would work her for hours on one tempo, one stanza, one note at a time if need be. She was a soprano but laziness had gotten her comfortable in her lower register. The high notes scared her in a way they had not before.

And like blood in the water, Erik knew this, thus a whole month was devoted to conquering that fear. She grew frustrated, but she never really lashed out or threw a fit. He was too commanding a presence to do so, and both the threat of a long lecture and his disappointment in her childishness kept her bitterness at by. And it was her own fault in a large way.

But that did not stop her from growing angry all together. In fact, in one of his more challenging scales, it was what drove her to finally reach and hit the note he had wanted. She had sung it at him, clear and crisp in lieu of a frustrated shout. He had thrown his hands down and pressed a triumphant chord onto the piano keys.

"That! That is what I have been trying to reach! Now don't you dare let go, sing! Sing for me, Christine!" He had come to her, and though he never touched her, gestured for her to spin sharply and face the seats. Now that she knew the feeling, she hit the note once more, the clear sound of her voice echoing long after she had run out of breath.

She had gone home, tired, tears in her eyes, and a grin plastered onto her face.

The continuous summer rush kept questions about her change in schedule at bay. But with September once again approaching, and her shift in mood, Meg was chomping at the bit to know what was behind it all. The Friday before the first day of school, Christine was packing up to catch the bus for the theater when Meg cornered her in the coat room. She was wielding the mop and wheeled bucket, positioning it between them and blocking her exit.

"That's far enough Daae," she mocked growling.

Feeling a theatrical demand coming on Christine pleaded, "Meg, please! I have to catch the bus!"

"The-you have a car! Where are you going? Ma said that you have a second volunteer job that you never told me about!"

Christine looked down at her jacket, and shifted uncomfortably. Oh how she hated lying. Even the littlest white lie sat in her stomach like a snake, ready to strike at her conscious. Even this small little omission, though lessons almost felt like a job, with all the work they poured into her voice. But to tell Meg would be opening a big can of worms: first of all, it would be betraying the promise she made to Erik. How could she wriggle out of this one?

"I've been...volunteering at the opera house."

Meg's pale brows shot into her thick bangs. "The opera house? Angel's opera house?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"Because...because it comes with expectations!" She threw up her hands. If she hinted that once again, her music was beginning to live, not only would Meg result in a firm round of  _I-told-you-so_ , but there would be the assumption that she would return to school, or aspirations of becoming a diva. Erik certainly expected that, and it was more than enough that he did. At first she hadn't rebuked him because it seemed too much of a losing battle in the first few weeks.

Now, with almost three months gone by, she hadn't wanted to, afraid that he would call off these lessons all together. But singing just to prove she could, taking parts of her old life she had missed and mending them to this new Christine had felt like healing infected wounds, a balm for the pain that her parent's death had left. The pain she had ignored so dutifully for years. It felt like waking from a long horrible sleep. To loose it now would be terrible. And she didn't think she could bare the disappointment in herself, for messing up such an opportunity.

Christine had always known how her life was going. Her father and mother, being musicians lived a rather transient life. Every summer was always away, traveling. And during the school year, her father was always traveling, leaving her and her mother alone, waiting for his calls. And even when her mother passed away, she still knew what she was doing: conservatory, become a singer, and follow in her father's footsteps. Then he died, and her life exploded. She had only just gotten it back on track, knowing full well what she was doing. Another plan, another comfortable feeling of safety. Work up the ladder in cafe, become a store manager, slowly save until she would retire. And now, now she was poised to change all that.

Yes, she had one foot in, one out. Yes it wasn't fair, but she needed time. She had no guiding hand now. All this was her choice, no circumstances or family legacy mapping her choices. Christine was scared of her imaginary failures.

"I don't expect anything from you," Meg said, suddenly hurt and angry. "I just want to know where my best friend is. It's like having you back and not. You're all dreamy and happy again, but without me. You call me back late, sometimes you don't answer my texts at all! You're never home when I drop by!"

Christine balked and grabbed Meg's arms. "I'm not without you! I just don't...want to disappoint everyone. Again."

Meg's rage was short-lived. "You don't disappoint me, Chris. You're the strongest person I know. If I had lost Ma I don't think I could have done what you did."

"I just did what needed to be done. I didn't exactly fancy living in a box on the street."

"Yeah-not everyone manages that," Meg pointed out. Even brusk and hurt, Meg had an odd way of boosting one's confidence. "You can hang at the opera house and not go back to the conservatory. You can do whatever you want. I'm glad you're going, I'm glad your doing something. I just wanted to know! I hate secrets."

Christine felt that like a blow. She was keeping a secret, but it wasn't totally her secret to tell. If her Maestro wanted privacy that was his right. "I go every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And..." Christine squeezed her eyes closed. Meg's hurt look was burned into her eyelids and blinking wouldn't expel the sight. "And I'm...taking review lessons. In singing-but you cannot tell anyone. Marguerite I am serious, you cannot tell anyone this! I've just betrayed the confidence of someone who really needs to trust me all so that you won't hate me!"

"Okay, okay, calm down." Meg let go of the mop handle and held up her hands. "I promise I won't even tell Ma. But is it because you're working on something secret? Not an  _expectation_ -but are you thinking about singing again?"

"Something like that."

"Well..." Meg's good sense won out over desire. "I don't want to get you in trouble. If you can't tell me about it then you can't. But once it's out you'll tell me?"

"Definitely," Christine swore again.

"Then go. You're gonna miss your bus." She rolled the bucket out of the way, and Christine pulled her down for a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying by.

"You're the best!"

"Yeah I know  _that_!"

* * *

"Stop."

Christine blinked and shut her mouth. Erik considered her through narrowed eyes. She had done something wrong, she knew it, but couldn't remember what. She hadn't been focusing, instead thinking on the conversation with Meg, replaying it over and over in her mind. It hadn't been a fight, but still her friend had dragged up all the problems with this little arrangement. And her honesty. The snake was sinking its fangs into her heart. She had traded guilt over lying to Meg with guilt for betraying her Maestro. And this was somehow worse, with his wide eyes and simple earnestness.

"I'm sorry, Maestro. Did I miss a cue?"

"You are singing like a marionette doll," he told her. "You are not here. Break and refresh."

She nodded and went to the edge of the stage where he kept the water. He had switched to a pitcher filled with ice and a glass instead of the many water bottles. It was always just one glass for her. She sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging as she sipped her water dutifully.

Erik played softly behind her, always something different and always something she didn't know. She assumed they were his own compositions, and often would listen trying to see if they were a continuation of a former piece or a new one all together. If they were all new he was rather prolific. But now she just rocked to the beat of the lullaby.

"Christine."

She stood immediately and returned to the piano. But he wasn't ready to play. Instead his shoulders were hunched, his head down. "Do you no longer wish for Erik to be your Maestro?"

Her heart sank. "No! I want your lessons," she said immediately, her hands gripping the side of the piano.

His grip on his knees loosened. "Then you will tell your Maestro where you were tonight, if not in your singing?"

Christine had not expected this to come to a head so soon after her talk with Meg. She wanted to lie, maybe even through out the time-honored 'monthly troubles' that so often got men to at once sympathize and alienate the topic immediately. But two lies in so short a time would drive her mad with guilt. Or at least make her stomach upset or the rest of the night. How could she break it to him that she had no choice but to tell one person about their time together?

He was staring at the piano, waiting, like a dog ready to be swatted. Oh she really hated that look on him. How to start? Maybe with something else, something smaller that had been bothering her. "Maestro, do you really still want me to replace Carlotta?"

His head snapped up so quickly, she feared for his neck. "Of course!"

"Even though she's seasoned and trained and I'm a college drop out?"

"You are receiving a better education than any of your fellows," he told her emphatically. "You could replace her tonight!"

Christine winced and had to look away. She had been afraid of that.

"You dislike Erik's compliments."

"No, no it's not that. They're really nice actually. It's just that..." She pressed her thumb into the black lacquer top of the baby grand, watching the pressure drive the pink of her skin away from the tip and pool at the knuckle. "I'm not ready for that. At all. And I can't see that time being close either. I need more time, a lot more. And...and you'll probably feel like I'm wasting your time. I don't think you'll want to continue these lessons anymore-and I want to so badly. I've really come to love them. To progress, even if just for myself."

There was a long silence, and Christine guessed that he was preparing to tell her to leave, kindly. After all, he was so very serious about work ethic and music and applying herself. She heard the creak of the piano stool as he shifted. Then his voice, that soft, soft voice from the cafe floated over to her. "Time hearing you sing is not wasted," Erik informed her.

She looked up and saw his gaze was still planted firmly on the black and white keys. "Erik spoke without thinking. I meant to say that even when you sang first on this stage, it was clear that you were the superior by talent alone, and in feeling. But you are not ready to audition anywhere as of yet. Your repertoire is non-existent and even the most lenient managers would not take you, even if they wept at the beauty of your voice."

Finally he chance a glance at her. The relief must have been obvious on her face, because he took to starring for the next few minutes before saying, "If there was no chance of you ever auditioning your Maestro would still instruct you, three times a week, gladly."

Christine could have wept. But she had more control than that. Slowly, so she didn't scare him off, she took his hand from the piano bench and held it. It was thin and the fingers were oddly long and the gloves were horribly tight-why he insisted on them to play the piano she didn't know-but she squeezed gently anyway. "And I wouldn't miss an hour. Thank you...Erik."

Carefully, almost like he was in a hypnotic trance his free hand came to their joined fingers. He turned his palm over, holding her hand knuckles up in a touch so light it was barely there. Her hand looked so tiny in his, and she was made aware that, though he was slender and gaunt, he was much larger than her. His fingers trailed over her knuckles and the blue veins hidden just under her soft skin.

When had he last touched another person, she suddenly wondered. "I suppose I'm not ready yet, or the expectations it would bring. I'm not confident in my abilities as you are."

"It will come in time. When you reach your true potential, even you will not be able to deny your talent." His hands now folded around her fingers in a soft hold, not pulling away unless she did.

"But...there is something else. And I hope you'll be as kind as you were just now."

His expression turned confused-so much was conveyed through his eyes and mouth. Christine was being coming adept in translating even the slightest twitch. Her hand grew a little clammy in his hold and she wondered if he was going to throw it away when she said, "I was forced to tell my best friend about my lessons-just my lessons!"

He did not let go, but his grip turned to steel. "I believe I made myself clear."

"You did, and I did not tell her about you at all. I know you like your privacy, I just told her I was getting refresher lessons. She doesn't know how intense we're working. But she was worried about where I was going and why I was gone all of the time. She's my best friend and I swore her to secrecy-"

"I swore  _you_ to secrecy."

"-And I couldn't get through without lying to her and I just can't abide lying. That's why I'm telling you. I won't lie to you either. She's a good friend, she won't tell now that she knows I'm safe." When he didn't answer she pressed the only advantage she knew: "I mean you wouldn't lie to me, would you? Or to Detective Khan? You're friends right? You have to know where I'm coming from. Please Maestro."

Now she sat on the bench beside him and he slid, with almost comic speed, to the edge of the bench, letting her go. But it was Christine who was holding on now. "I tried my hardest to keep my promise to you and be honest. But I can't lie."

He took a deep breath and his gaze dropped to her fingers holding him captive. "...I would never ask you to do something you believed wrong," he finally relented. "And as a young woman perhaps it was an unreasonable request to forbid you to alert anyone to where you were. You are sure she will not pry further?"

"I know it!"

"She will not tell anyone and jeopardize your chance?"

"Never!"

"She will never know your teacher is me?"

"Not until you want it known, if you want it known. I mean once I am on stage, people are going to wonder who has taught me."

Erik inclined his head, his eyes going round at the prospect. Perhaps he hadn't thought exactly that far ahead. "Yes. And I will also need time."

Christine let out a long breath, relieved. She let him go finally and felt like the world was raised from her shoulders. She stood, tired, but ready to exorcise the remnants of ill feeling from her. "Okay. Let's start again."

But Erik shook his head. "You must go, Christine. It is late, you're exhausted, and your life will be missing you. We shall make up the missing half hour on Monday."

* * *

Erik was in heaven. Or as close to heaven a creature like him could attain. Heaven came to him three times a week, and like the needle he had abandoned so long ago, it was addictive. It clouded his every thought when he was away from their lessons, robbed him of thought and of music. In his home he would put bow to string and find nothing coming forth. Not one instrument in his music room would produce beauty, not even when he played the music of others.

But,  _oh_! He did not suffer for it. He could not coax the music from objects because it was inside of him! Every moment Christine's voice did not fill his ears, it echoed in his mind, his soul surging up to play counterpoint. He went through seven stacks of staff paper in the first two months. Half of it had been fed into the fire when he reviewed it, but it did not deter him. His shopping list for Jules shortened when it came to food (not to say that the list was ever very long) and lengthened when it came to supplies. But the short man didn't seem to mind. He seemed just as happy with Christine's presence.

And why should he not be? The girl exuded kindness. She was an angel, sent down from Heaven and West Caldwell. She came into the opera with smiles and hellos. She learned the cleaning staff's names and sometimes brought the leftover pastries for them all and little cups of coffee before sweeping into her lesson. Jules had informed the staff that she was to be apart of the production crew and was helping the opera owner with 'future projects'.

So kind. Just like when she had first smiled at him-so free of the usual gawking stares at his mask and attire. She had talked to him the same way Nadir had, as if she did not need twenty years of caregiving to be easy with him. Then she had remembered him, laughed at his joke, and conversed like a normal person. He had watched her carefully during his only trips into the world.

Not that he would ever tell the smug Persian, since it was technically his doing. There were plenty of coffee shops closer in the city than The Little Latte, but Nadir preferred it, perhaps for the workers. It was the place Nadir had begged him to go, just once or twice a week, just to get him out of the opera house. Apparently in his six years of solitude in his home underground he had "forgotten his manners" and "how to live among others".

That genius idea had come from hearing his last row with Charles, the man Erik had partnered in building the opera house. Erik had vehemently rejected the new manager, Firmin, Charles had hired, and Charles had told him that the ticket sales were too low; the business needed more than Erik's narrow tastes. Erik responded to the insult and had shouted so horribly the man, and apparently made to put his hands around his neck (though Erik did not remember that part of it at all!). It had scared him so thoroughly that the coward had run to Khan to tattle. From then on Nadir firmly believed Erik had forgotten how to deal with humans.

Erik had tried, and failed, to remind Nadir that he had never possessed that skill! But to get the man off his back he had agreed to make the half hour drive a few times a week.

But now he wished to deal easily with others, oh he needed to. And all for his angel!

He had even braved the crowds that reminded him how much a creature he was, and slipped into the cafe unnoticed, just to watch her. To make sure what he had thought he had seen was true. Even as she plied the masses with the stock "Good morning, how are you?" she made it sound as if she genuinely cared how each person was, as if their morning routines were the height of interest.

And then the humming-it had taken his breath away. She had been making drinks behind the counter, and in the little alcove between bar and door he had sat with his hood up, face turned away and listened. She even sang breathily under her breath, and Erik could have wept with the beauty of it. It was like seeing a beautiful kitten with its fur drenched in mud: so beautiful and so neglected.

So he had used the only thing he knew would lure her closer, the only thing he had of worth: his opera house. He had given her the ticket, and watched her in box five, in the false wall behind the seat. There were innumerable ones just like it through his opera house, as well as trap doors. Charles had been leery on it, and Erik had almost swayed. Now he thanked his own stubbornness to keep the secrets of the opera house, for he could watch this angel in repose.

How lovely, how sweet and open she had been, her hands folded under her chin, leaning against the edge of the box like a child. He watched her take delight in the mechanics of the stagecraft, the lull of the story, and even felt this heart swell with pride for the girl when she winced at Carlotta's wailing.

When she sighed happily, not even God could have kept him from sighing with her.

And how happily she had run to him to thank him for the opportunity! That she should thank him, when he was the one so in debt! How she had grinned at him, run to him not away, how her eyes sparkled! He knew, in that moment, he had to keep her close, had to stake claim to some part of her life. He needed it, even if he needed to make fake tours to do it.

And then she had sung with such piteous emotion, in his theater. Oh he could have wept with her the sadness she had poured into that song. A cruel world indeed that such a girl should ever feel and ounce of pain. But the part of him that longed to commune with her suffering was snuffed out by the artist, who craved to take that beautiful sound from her lips and craft it into the majesty it was sure to become. In the heady rush of want, he had run to her.

Nadir had often told him that his swing of emotions could be off-putting to a mankind, is if that and not the visage he had the gall to call a face, scared people off. But the rebuke was not without merit-and he had stopped himself before he chastised her for demurring about her gift, fixing his hair and clothes. He would never posses any beauty, but he could at least look presentable. He had even cut his long hair, purging himself of all signs of self neglect.

But she was not off put in the least. In fact she was able to take his exuberance in stride and at times match him. This he learned over the course of their lessons. He could see the real emotion below the placid kindness she showed. She would suck her teeth and flex her hand, but keep it tightly controlled. He could see in her the only good in him: passion, the passion for music and the want to master herself.

When she had finally broken free of the fear of her own voice, her note had flown from her like a dove into the open air. He had begged her to sing for him, and she had. Then Erik had known bliss for the first time. And how he was continually showered: even when he thought she might betray him as so many had before, by telling her friends about lessons, she had begged him-him!-to forgive her.

And he had. He could not allow his own machinations to affect her. Of course she could not lie and keep secrets, not from anyone. She had agonized over the admission, as if she should worry for his comfort: he who deserved nothing but an unmarked grave as the corpse he so resembled.

How did she not know, that he would give her anything? That he would open his shirt and slice into his chest to fish out his heart if she desired it? She had it already so secure, even through their months of lessons. He had to force himself to be firm, to be the stiff maestro she needed to achieve all that she could. It was a little easier when he heard her mistakes and hesitations, relying on his frustrated desire for perfection keep himself from coddling her.

Or worse, letting her know that this dog, this ugly vile thing loved her.

He shivered to think that she might know and finally run. But, miracle of miracles, even when he touched her-just a curl, just her arm-she did not suspect. And she became easy around him, touching his hands without recoiling at their oddly long shape. He had held her hand one or twice, such a delicate and small thing, so warm and thrumming with life. Had he been a normal man, like everyone else, he might have been brave and lifted those white knuckles to his dead lips. Perhaps even ventured to steal paradise and brush his mouth against her slender wrist…

(No. No he mustn't think of that. He must not tempt  _Him_ to want Christine. Let his love be pure. Let it be clean, let it be innocent, the only scrap of it he had left, the heel that was held when he had been so thoroughly dipped in blood.)

And when she was angry, she always returned! And how-for she was at times righteously furious. They could not sing forever during their lessons, and the repetitive nature of teaching quickly burned away the novelty of their time together. When she would rest he inquired about her knowledge of musical theory, history and her tastes. Her classical knowledge was vast, and she had a peculiar taste, but not bad. Their arguments came of course when they talked of modern music.

She loved what she called "fusion" whether it be of cultural sounds or different types (rock and opera, 'techno' and classical). Synthesizers had become a quick sore spot ("They are nothing but noise!" "Every instrument is just noise until you make music with it!"). From her phone she played him some of her favorites, trying to show him what drew her to the songs.

Despite the vile noise that would eek out of her speakers he rather liked these times. Christine's shyness was swept away with music. She'd sway to ballads, bounce to the hard rock tunes. When her beloved 80's would play she apparently couldn't help herself but to dance a little around the piano. Rather than listen to the racket, Erik would watch her, and wished-wished so dearly-that he was not who he was. That he could stand and catch her waist as he had seen human men do and dance with her…

No. He must not think so.

Very often didn't see the merit, and launched into his critiques, which she would rebut. "Just because you can't see the beauty or worth in something doesn't mean it's not there," she said as 'Don't Fear The Reaper' played from her phone's speakers. She had handed her maestro her phone to look through, and he had tapped on the songs with interesting titles, but found nothing of note within.

"If it is not immediately apparent, perhaps the worth is minimal," he had sniffed.

"You are an ungodly snob," she replied, watching him scroll. Erik had quickly learned that such names, spoken lightly, were teases meant to tell the truth...sweetly. "There are plenty of songs I thought were useless before I started to sing or play them. Then I found the beauty."

He stopped, and almost dropped the phone, mouth agape when he came across a playlist titled "Club Tunes."

"What?" She peered at the list when he turned it towards him, and smirked. "Oops. I don't listen to that one without Meg, or unless we're driving to a dance club. I guess you're not an Eminem fan either?" She broke off in a snicker and took her phone back.

"Christine, what on earth are these songs about?!"

"Just what it says. But they've got good beats. When you're dancing you don't really listen to the lyrics. If I did I'd probably hate them as much as you."

"That..."

Christine laughed again, and Erik registered that he did not feel one ounce of shame. He was no on display and felt no need to hide. She was laughing at him, but it did not hurt. In fact he never wanted her to stop. He wanted to bottle that sound and keep it with him, knowing that he had made her produce it. "Are you scandalized? Should I get smelling salts? You're too much of a gentleman to look at that list."

"A gentleman," he replied, still a little stunned by this recent miracle.

"Well, look how you dress and talk and act." She stood from the bench and took up her place by the piano again. "Like you've walked out of a history book."

He shifted his gaze to the piano keys, mask uncomfortably hot now.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's a compliment."

Erik closed his eyes. How attuned she was to him. How well she could guess his moods, when he seemed such a mystery to others.

 _She was meant for him_.

The thought cracked across his mind like lightning. His fingers dug into his knees and his shoulders hunched quickly around his neck. How  _dare_ he? How dare he think of her so? How vile was he to align this angel with his grotesque nature, his unearthly longing for something that he could never have. No woman would want him. Face or no, he was a monster in and out, clothed in a human body. A body that had been abused and twisted, a body that had murdered and enjoyed it. And that body wanted just as most males did.

But he could not allow himself to want her, less  _that_ part of him return. Blood soaked, grinning and disastrous. Not Christine. He had to squash any idea of kissing those hands, or touching her face, or even holding her to him in an embrace. Such fantasies must be thoroughly and well routed, for if they were not he would begin to want. And oh, how his want would burn-burn everything beautiful he had collected and hoarded, just as he had before. It would awaken  _that_ creature he had spent years to control, the creature tamed by Reza and his care for Nadir's well being.

The Phantom who did only Bin Nasheed's disgusting bidding. He would not keep himself from Christine. He had been denied such touch, such beauty and he burned-she would become nothing but ash under his touch. Erik could not let that happen to his Christine. He must remain Erik, her maestro. And he must never, ever think to keep her. But, oh...

"Maestro? Please, I'm sorry. I don't understand why that's such a bad thing."

"It is not," he said softly, purging the emotion from his voice. "Not at all. Erik simply wishes to do nothing to alter your opinion. You must tell your Maestro if he does."

"I will," Christine promised, tilting her head to catch his eye. "Believe me, I will. You'll hear about it." She smiled. Was that another one of her jokes? Erik lifted his face and tried to return the smile, forgetting that he had one of his more comfortable full face masks on. But she seemed to understand anyway.

She always did.

He carried her compliment with him through the weekend. He composed a little and finally tried to put the melodies he created with her in mind to piano. It ate up most of his Saturday and Sunday, he almost missed his weekly meet with Nadir. Coming up from his home, and using the entrance on the stage he found the Persian already sitting at one of the prop tables left out after rehearsal. He was opening the sparkling water (Nadir, despite his god's teachings, usually drank wine but abstained for Erik's sake who could no longer touch the stuff since recovery), two cigars already cut and waiting.

It had been years since Nadir pestered him to enter his home. The man had never seen it, no one had. It was better that way. "You're late."

"Indeed. I will have to beat you faster today." Erik placed the chess kit on the table and sat, setting up the board.

"You're never late. Are you planning new tortures for Firmin?"

"If I was, why would I tell you and spoil the fun?"

"Charles doesn't think it's fun."

"Charles is a cry baby." Erik made the first move and took out his lighter. He never tortured Firmin, or the previous managers. They were simply skittish. He always arrived in their offices silently through the bookcase and waited in shadow. While it was effective the first few times, Erik wondered why the novelty never wore off. Surely something could not be scary every single time? But it was all for the better. Scared men were more pliable. Usually, unless they had a short stout cry baby telling them to hold firm against the opera house landlord.

"You're going to have to let it go some time," Nadir pointed out, leaning forward to light the end of his cigar. "Charles does want what's best for the opera house."

"What's best for the theater is talent," Erik snapped, sitting back and crossing his long legs. "And true art. Not this...celebrity and her crowd of fans. And this idea for a showcase! Not even a play, it's little more than a grade school talent show!"

"Everyone starts somewhere." Khan, ever patient, ever rational made his move and spoke softly. "You might find some real talent as you said. Maybe Carlotta's replacement will be in one of the show cases? Then you won't have to get Firmin to fire her."

Erik huffed before starting his cigar. But as he stared at the board, the wheels in his ghoulish mind turned. If there was someone in the show case that was that good, it would not be out of the question to demand they be retained by the theater. He had planned on bullying Firmin into opening auditions for one of the operas, no matter the insult to Carlotta and placing Christine in the running. But if she entered the show case, proved her worth independently, then there would be no need. It was still just an idea. By the time Firmin began setting it up, she would be more than ready and over this silly demure attitude about her gift.

And it would prove to Charles (and Nadir) that there was no more need to harp on him and his tactics of running the opera house.

Letting out a trail of smoke Erik murmured, "Nadir, you are surprisingly useful at times."

"Thank you. I just put hundreds of criminals in jail during my time, and saved your life three times over but I'm glad I'm useful  _some_ of the time."

"Don't pout, I gave you a compliment."

"Thank you for my yearly compliment, sir." But the darker man was smiling in spite of himself.

"You're welcome. Check."

* * *

"You can't even have a little?" Meg waved the new latte drink under Christine's nose. The singer whined softly, and wanted desperately to suck it down. Maple with hints of apple and cinnamon. In the quickly cooling weather it fit the mood perfectly. But no...

"I can't," Christine sighed, sitting back. The were in the back, both on last break. She might have been able to sneak a little on any other day. But she had a suspicion that Maestro would be able to tell if she partook in dairy right before a lesson. "Describe it to me, and talk slow."

Meg snickered and downed the rest in one gulp. "Yummy. So you're saying something about your teacher?"

Christine had kept her promise of giving Erik his anonymity, but this was just too good not to tell. "He scrolled through that playlist we made-remember on our senior year road trip? He almost fainted."

"What's he got against a little Slim Shady?"

"Not in his wheelhouse. I mean the man doesn't even like gothic, and it usually has an orchestra!" Christine shook her head and opened her phone, smiling at her playlists fondly. "So I was trying to explain that some music needs to be done rather than just heard. And he asked me what I played, and he couldn't guess it!"

It had been amusing. After the whole 'gentleman' debacle he asked her if she meant what she said about 'singing and playing'. He had guess the piano first, and she did indeed play it to some extent. Then the violin, which was a good guess considering her lineage. But she played less violin than piano. The flute as next, and then the harp, which sent her into laughter. Her teacher who knew so much couldn't find the common theme in most of her well played songs! "Erik will find out," he had mumbled finally, returning his hands to the piano.

"I'm sure. Maybe in time. Maybe." The look he gave her was worth it all.

Meg smirked. "Your only rebellion. Your Mom hated when you practised, she'd run to our house for some peace!" After their shared laugh she continued, "So you like your teacher? I mean getting back into music has helped but you always seem to be into something new when ever you come back from your lessons."

"He's..." Christine wondered how to describe him. It was true that every lesson seemed to spark her creativity. Christine had first found herself content to hone her own craft. But having to explain, and then defend, her taste in music she found that she had a taste for theory too. It helped that he was a walking college course on the subject. And how he taught-before she even began to start a new piece, he'd launch into a long passionate explanation, how it moved and sounded, and how to capture that spirit.

After so many conversations, she found that not only did she want to sing beautiful music, she might even want to make it. Christine now asked what he was playing during their breaks, and how he planned on finishing or altering the piece. Maybe he was simply rubbing off on her, but she liked it. She could engage with her voice, yes. But to write the lyrics that her voice transported: that would be something else.

In fact her bag today was heavy with her laptop. She had splurged and down loaded several music programs. On Wednesday she had set about memorizing one of his tunes. She hadn't gotten it exact and she was rusty with writing notes, but she had taken out the old electric piano her mother once had, and played until she got something close. Then she translated the notes into the program's piano player, and added a synth rift (deep and thrumming, like a mix of bass and drums). She was nervous to show him, and still wasn't sure if she would.

But she felt silly explaining that to Meg. She'd listen happily, but she might not really understand. So, if she couldn't explain her Maestro's influence, how to explain he himself? In her mind she saw him in his usual spot on the stage, dressed formally, staring at his pocket watch, one hand behind his back, holding his conductor's wand. He was long lines, and grace. There would be a few times when he would lean an elbow on the closed piano lid and cross his legs, and her eyes would follow the length of his legs. He was so very tall...

But that was just the physical. He had a command of any room he was in, even in the yawning theater. When he played, even a simple tune, he coaxed the notes from the piano, almost asking permission of the instrument. Encouraging it, like he did her. Though she had never seen him snap at the piano, she thought with a snort. Still, when he chastised she never felt cowed. Erik only asked of her what he knew she could give. It was her responsibility to reach that level.

"He's...a lot," she said lamely.

"Is he hot?"

"Meg!" Christine let her head all back. "I don't know! Does it matter? He's a wonderful teacher."

"It matters a little bit. You're spending all this time with him and you're always talking about how you learned this and that and on and on. I mean if you have a crush-"

"I do not have a crush," she gasped, sitting up like a shot.

"That's something someone with a crush would totally say by the by," Meg chuckled. "I wanna know if he's worth the crush that's all. I mean face isn't everything. It's how they hold themselves. It's all in the attitude."

"I do not have a crush," Christine repeated. But when they returned to the floor she had to agree with her friend. She had not seen Erik's face, of course, so all she had to go on was attitude. He carried himself like she said: a gentleman. She remembered when he had held her hand as she had given her little confession; like it was a bird ready to fly as a moment's notice. His fingers in those too tight gloves tracing her bones, then clasping her fingers completely.

Suddenly, her face felt hot for a reason other than the steamer wand. In the moment she'd felt too bad to think about it, but now from a different point of view...he'd held her hand a very long time in those long fingers. He who always skittered away when she moved close. Even as she poured and served she recalled his look behind those awful full faced masks. She hated when he wore them, both because it meant she wouldn't hear him sing, and by that token, he wasn't going to help her by example anymore with the piece.

He always watched her with those wide gold eyes, never wavering, giving her his full attention. They softened when he sang, or played. His whole body changed when he put on a show for her. No longer hunched and hiding. But neither was his bombastic and vulgar. No, there was a magnetism about him when he performed, that muddled her thoughts, until there was nothing but him and the music he was producing; dark almost seductive. More than once, while he was lost in song, she had edged closer, meaning to place her hand on his shoulder, or even to move back a piece of hair from his eyes that had fallen loose.

She never did however. She had more sense than that.

No, Meg as right. He had a nature about him that was mysterious, but inviting when he played. Now she really blushed, thinking about how he never really touched her, but was always so close, telling her how to stand how to breathe. Sometimes he would tsk in her ear when she ran out of voice by not breathing deeply enough. "Christine, what has your Maestro told you? From the diaphragm." His hand would hover over her middle, and then he was gone, the almost fond reprimand pulling a smirk at his lips. "If you faint, what ever shall Erik do?"

Oh damn Meg! How was she going to face her Maestro now, thinking about all this? She did not have a crush! Crushes were for cute boys who winked at her, and told silly jokes to get her to laugh. Erik was none of those things. He engaged her mind, challenged her and sometimes frustrated her. Thinking about how he made her feel, his presence after the fact...

Christine was shaken from her blushing reverie by Sorelli, who was shaking her arm. "Chris? There's a customer who thinks they know you."

"Huh?" Turning, she looked toward the cafe where three soldiers stood, US NAVY emblazoned on their sleeves. Two were dark haired and buzzed, talking to each other as they mixed milk into their coffee. The third lifted a hand as she turned, waving a little, his blue eyes dancing-

"Oh my  _God_!" She couldn't help her screech as she ran from behind the counter and into his arms. "Oh my God, Raoul!"

"I knew it!" He caught her, lifting her up with a laugh. Good Lord he was strong now! She could feel the steel muscles through his uniform as he squeezed her. "Christine!"

"I can't believe it! You're all grown up!"

"Me? Look at you!" He placed her down and stood back, holding her arms out to the side. "All grown and covered in caramel!"

She laughed, hopping a little in place. It had been so long! She had always felt bad about losing touch, but after they had moved to ritzy Franklin Lakes and he'd gone to boarding school and then her Mother... Well life had just gotten very chaotic. But here he was, that same dimpled smile, those large blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. Raoul, grown up and-

"You're in the Navy?!"

"Yup. Just got back from Germany. I went by the old houses, and the owners said you moved to somewhere around Montclair. Then Rachel said that Mrs. Giry had opened a coffee shop around here so I decided to see if I couldn't track you down and here you are! Hey Meg!"

Meg was watching them, grinning from the counter. Raoul had only gone to their school for a year or so, but had known he was Christine's neighbor. "Hey, looking good kid! What are you getting, it's on the house."

He gave her a simple order and asked Christine when she was off.

"In an hour," She said consulting the clock. She had a half an hour to spare before she had to get on the bus.

"I can wait. We're just killing time and we're used to hurry up and wait. Don't let me keep you."

"Alright-stay put!" She pointed to a table and he saluted.

"Yes Ma'am!"

For the rest of her shift Christine grinned happily, unable to believe that the little boy who had so faithfully played with her and engaged in her fantasy was here again, big and strong. But still with that puppy dog grin, those sparkling blue eyes. More than once she caught him staring through the window (he and his fellows were seated outside). He'd give her two thumbs up, in that charming, goofy way of his. Christine couldn't help but giggle.

"He's so hot," Sorelli sighed, leaning over the divider that separated the cash register from the bar area. "I know he's your friend, but can I have him Christine?"

"Not before I get a crack," Meg called, turning off her headset mid drive through order. "Christine I call dibs!"

"Don't you have a guy?"

Meg stuck out her tongue before returning back to her customer service persona and asking "do you want that hot or iced?"

"He's not mine and I can't give him away, Good Lord," Christine cried shaking her head. "All these drinks and you're all still utterly thirsty." Still she practically tore her apron off as soon as she was clocked out, skidding outside. Raoul was alone now, and stood to envelop her in another hug.

"I'm so glad I was able to find you!"

"Me too-you're so big!"

"And you're still the same height," he teased, placing a hand on her head.

"Hey!  _Though she be little, she be fierce_!" Christine put up her fists mockingly, and took a soft jab at his shoulder. He feigned falling back in his seat in pain. Raoul was still a decent actor. "You're a sailor!"

"I am. Dad didn't get me too." Raoul's father had been a lawyer and had lived in the same neighbourhood as the Daae's when he was just starting his firm: the minute their business took off, so did they. They had strict control of their children's lives. Good Catholics, Raoul had both two older brothers and three elder sisters, and all of them were to be prepared for greatness. While honorable, Christine knew his father might not see eye to eye with his youngest.

"Your parents...?"

"Couldn't do anything once I was eighteen. And I know the law is great and all but I wanted to get out there and do something with my life. See the world, be apart of something. So, the Navy recruiter came by my school and the rest is history."

Christine listened, her cheek on her fist. "That's really brave, Raoul. I mean-not just your parents. But it's so dangerous."

"It is," he agreed. "You see...a lot. But the community, and my fellows. They make it manageable."

"And you're back for good?"

"I don't know, I might go into the reserves, go to college. Or I might stay and work up the officer chain. We're actually here..." His face fell. "Well we're here for a court martial, actually."

Immediately, Christine grabbed his hand. "Are you alright?"

"Me? Oh of course. Believe me, I didn't go running into the street after anyone else's teddy bears," he teased. Christine winced. He had been so determined to be brave; thank God there had been no cars coming. "No I'm a witness."

"May I ask?"

"Yeah. It's a mess. One of the men in my...sorry lemme think of the layman term. In my squad? He had been having an affair with a female officer-both married. And if that wasn't bad enough he was beating the sh-he was abusing his wife. And the female, that he was sleeping with? She knew about it the whole time."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry." Christine's heart went out to the poor navy-wife. "Is she away from him?"

"Oh yeah. I've been sleeping on a couch for the past month to make sure. She's such a nice girl too. Me and Jackson, and Innis-the two I was with before? We've been crashing at her new apartment, making her feel safe. I just hate that I didn't see it. That I didn't notice it. I would have..." His hand on the table tightened into a fist.

Her fingers closed over his. "You're doing something right now. A lot."

His hand relaxed, and Raoul nodded. His fingers closed over hers. "I know. Gotta keep focusing on that. But you! Tell me about you! I did hear about Mom and Pop."

"Yeah. It was...hard. With Mom it was better, if you can call it better? We knew about the cancer, and it was a fight, so there was time to say goodbye. But Dad."

"I didn't know his heart had been so bad."

"Neither did I. He always had congestion and that sort of thing but a blockage in that artery, if it's not taken care of." She spread out her hands, at a loss for words. "...How often do you get yours checked?"

Raoul ducked his head, smiling sadly. "Often. I have the records if you wanna see them?"

"I might just, you know! Now that I see you're alive and well I'm not gonna let a decade go by again before bothering you!"

"God please don't! It's been a bore without you. Here," He took out his phone and unlocked the screen. "Put your number in. So what else? Are you still in school?"

"Not...formally. When Dad died it was just all too much. The Girys have been great to me but school on top of it all. I wouldn't have been able to. But I am taking some instruction."

"Oh yeah? Where? In New York?"

"No, Jersey City. I take the bus from-oh crap!" She finished plugging her number into his phone-and taken a moment to coo over the cute dog that was his background-and caught sight of the time. Her free half an hour had bled into a full one. She'd have to wait another thirty minutes for the next bus. "I'm late!" She should call-

No she couldn't call the opera house. There was no guarantee Jules was there, and no one else knew about their lessons. Five o'clock was their time because it was almost certain they'd have the entire theater to themselves.

"Oh no." Raoul tossed his empty cup into the trash. "I made you late. C'mon, let me drive you to where you need to go."

"It's a half hour away, I can't ask you to-"

"I have absolutely nowhere else to be besides home, and I won't miss a few hours of my mother and sister's nagging. This is your bag?" He picked up her side saddle, and stood, waiting.

Christine stood and hugged him again. "You really are a knight in shining armor-or, blue camo."


	4. Chapter 4

Raoul dropped her off a few blocks away at her request. "It's easier to get back on the highway from here, and you won't get turned around," she had excused which was true. She was more than grateful to Maestro for her bus pass.

"Be safe. I'll text," he called as she got out.

Lugging her bag beside her, she ran those blocks to the building. She made an awful noise running inside, letting the door slam behind her in her rush across the foyer to the theater. When she arrived at the stage, it was empty, the piano lid down. Groaning she slid onto the bench, but did not have long to feel sorry for herself.

"Indeed she arrives!"

Heart racing, Christine popped up, looking about wildly for her teacher. He as in box five, leaning over the side, fingers digging into the banister. But it was not shock and awe that drove his posture this time. "An  _hour_ late and counting!"

"I'm so-"

He fled the seat and like that first day was on the stage in minutes, silent and swift. Then he was storming onto the stage, footsteps echoing harshly in the empty theater. "An hour late! Does she not care what she does to Erik? Worried that she had been hurt? That she was somewhere in the city lost? That she decided she no longer wished to learn? Or does Christine believe she is a diva already, and is cultivating such attitude early?"

Her face heated, the insinuation hitting it's mark. "No! I'm sorry Maestro!"

He stood from her and folded his hands behind his back, his mouth in a firm line. He was waiting for an excuse. She was ready to provide (she had spent the whole car ride thinking).

"At work, an old childhood friend appeared-I had no idea they were in town. I haven't seen them since my mother and father were alive!" She held out her hands pleadingly. "That's a lot to catch up on. I was watching the time at first, but then I had to explain why I wasn't in the house-my childhood house-and everything that happened."

Her teacher took a breath and closed his eyes. He turned on his heel and walked away from her for a moment. She could see him spinning the conductor's baton deftly in his hand as the silence stretched on.

Feeling a little braver she ventured, "It's the first time I've been late. Usually I'm early."

"That is correct." Another deep breath. "You have been an exceptional student. And Erik...worried unnecessarily." He finally turned back to her, the tension gone from his shoulders at least. "You would not forget a lesson."

"No way," she promised, placing a hand on her bag. Not when she had so much to show. Maybe.

"You would not let your Erik sit here  _waiting_ and  _worrying_ on purpose."

"I'm sorry. I wanted to call but I didn't know if I should waste the time, or if you'd even be near the office phone."

"I would not have been," he agreed, his head lowering a little.

"You know if you have a better number for me to call incase something like this happens again... Buses can be late."

"Indeed. But I do not know it."

"You don't know your phone number?"

"No. I never bothered." He reached into his jacket's pocket and took out a sleek black cellphone. It looked so odd, her Maestro in his formal garb holding a modern phone. It was a few generations behind her own.

"I can find it in your phone, if you'd like. So I can contact you if I need to. If you'd like."

He held it out to her silently. Taking it, Christine frowned. "How do you not cut your fingers?" The screen of the phone was shattered. It wasn't unusual, Meg's phone had been shattered for a years while she waited for an upgrade. She had been too cheap to replace the screen. But Maestro's phone was a criss crossing web of breaks. She was almost afraid some of the pieces would fall out as she touched it. And was wasn't broken was scratched, not a reflective surface in sight.

"Erik manages."

His screen was the stock start up phone image, and he didn't have a password. Opening the lock screen she saw he had seventy eight messages and three missed calls. "You don't answer your phone much?"

"Those calling are not as important."

"Over seventy messages?"

"Na-Detective Khan-is a chatterbox."

Christine nodded, even if she wondered why the detective didn't just give up. She opened up his contacts, and forced herself not to spy, quickly tapping the plus sign. She put in her name "Christine" with a picture of a music note beside it. Quickly she lifted the phone to a decent angle and stuck out the tip of her tongue as she snapped a profile picture. Maestro watched this all, anger gone to be replaced with a little concerned curiosity. She texted her own phone though his and handed it back.

Erik starred at the picture for a very long time, before lifting his eyes and watching her open her own phone. "That is not you," he mused, catching sight of the singer on her background.

"Yeah. Amy is a lot prettier than I."

"Subjective. I believe remember her. The one with some sense of music."

"You only liked the album that had an orchestra on it," she reminded him. "You're more than a little biased." That album had been a mix of synth and classical. It was what had inspired her to play around with one of his tunes. She hoped it wouldn't be insulting.

"You do not keep photos on your phone?"

"I do! I just feel like it's narcissistic. For me. If people like seeing their own faces all the time that's alright. But not me."

Maestro nodded. "I quite agree. From now on you will call if you will be late?"

"Yes. I swear. Look up." He did and then frowned at the sound of a snap from her phone. It was a decent enough photo of him, a moment of casual repose.

"What was that?"

"I needed a photo for your contact." Christine paused. "Is that alright?"

"You took a photo of me," he breathed. "You...wished?"

"Yes. Is that alright?"

Erik blinked a for a long moment she thought he was about to yell at her again. It was thoughtless, and an apology was already on her lips when he said, "I am unsure. I have...yes. Yes you may have my image. If you  _wish_ it."

She replied to his text with a quick reply of 'Hello!', to test the number. Christine saw Raoul had already texted her. She couldn't help but smile.

His phone dinged in his palm, and he grimaced. "That noise."

"I suppose it would be annoying to hear it over  _seventy_ times."

Now Erik rolled his eyes, turning the ringer off tucking the phone away. "If it troubles you I shall open the messages tonight." He came closer to sit on the seat, but not before leaning closer and murmuring, "As I think of a fitting punishment for my diva."

Christine blushed furiously, and cursed her friend once more. The words and tone would never have made her stomach flip if she hadn't already been thinking about such...stupidity! "Yes, Maestro."

They worked or the next hour as usual. Warm up, scales, and then into  _The Magic Flute_. The Night Queen's aria was almost perfect, and after time with her and her voice, he seemed to have shed the annoyance about her tardiness.

"Very good, Christine," he complimented. "Simply remember, 'aw' not 'ah'. It gives a deep tone, and is more pleasant for the ear."

"Yes Maestro."

"Rest. I believe it will be a little while before your bus arrives."

She went to the edge of the stage and refilled her glass. He shifted on the bench and began playing. It was beautiful, his songs always were. But today she gently interrupted him.

"Maestro?"

"Hm?" He continued playing, turning slightly to face her. "Yes, Christine?"

"I have...something to show you, I think."

"You only  _think_?"

"I don't want you to be upset." Now that she was about to brooch the subject, she felt her stomach leaden. He must work hard on these pieces, and she had botched it in imitation, then tortured it with a medium he disliked. It was an insult. "Nevermind. You know what, it's nothing."

The music stopped. "Christine, please. Do not be afraid of your Maestro. What have you brought?" He turned his total attention to her, and she knew that she wasn't going to get away without showing him now. He was waiting there, hands folded primly on his knee, waiting for her to continue.

"Alright. Remember, before our lessons, when you asked about my creating?"

"Yes. Creating a new world with your voice," he agreed.

"Right. And I understood that. And I thought all I wanted to do was use my voice. Just...give life to the words."

"And you do," he encouraged.

"Well...I dabbled a little in creating music too. Not with my voice."

"Indeed?" Erik brightened, then held his hands to his chest. "Have you composed? And you wish me to see it?" He spoke as if she was giving him some great gift, bestowing an honor on him.

"No-sort of. There was a piece you played me last week. That..." She hummed a few bars, and he nodded. "It stuck with me and I tried to play it at home and I...please don't be mad at me. It inspired me and-"

"You altered it," he said, eyes narrowing slightly.

"No! I...I added."

"Added." Erik repeated the word as if it was another language. Then he stood and held out his hand. "Let me see." When she didn't move, he snapped his gloved fingers impatiently, and beckoned.

"I didn't write it on paper." She took out her laptop and brought it to the piano, gently placing it down on the lacquered wood. As it booted up, she took out her head phones, and cleaned then with an alcohol wipe from her bag. Opening the program, she plugged the buds in and held them out to Erik.

Glancing wearily at them, he held one to his ear, and nodded. Biting her lip she tapped the space bar and started the music. He starred off somewhere stage right, at least giving her attempt his undivided attention. She watched the notes scroll by, her stomach twisting. Finally, it stopped, and she waited for his verdict.

"You gave it a beat." He sounded surprised. "It's little more than a lullaby." At least he didn't sound angry. Indeed he cocked his head to the side, like an owl, curious.

"It is? To be it sounded like...like a love song. Like a slow se-soulful song." She was not going to call Erik's music sensual to his face, even if it was!

"Indeed?" He held the earphone up again and nodded. "Again."

He listened to it three times before Christine ventured to explain what she did. "I didn't get it quite right, your piano-"

"No you didn't. But it's very close."

"And the deep humming you're hearing? The beat, it synthesized. So is the piano but it's trying to sound real."

"Like that album you played me. Mixing the two."

"Yes. And...and look what I can do." She hurried back to her bag, forgotten by the water, and pulled out the little microphone. She had bought it along with the programs in a bundle. She had heard voices as well as instruments manipulated by the computer in some of her recent playlists. Not just autotuning, but creating a totally alien and impossible sound with them. She had bought the microphone just in case Erik did not throw her out on her ear. She wanted to get his voice, and play with it.

That sounded so awful, damn Meg!

After a second of set up, she turned it on. She pulled out the headphones and sang a single note, a soft 'ah', recording it in the computer. It played back at her immediately, and for the first time she heard what she sounded like now.

She sounded damn good.

Using that confidence she fiddled with the program. When she hit play again, her new audio played back. Christine had changed the key of the clip in the computer. It didn't' sound totally authentic, but now her voice was harmonizing with itself. Then she shortened the clip, until she could play her recorded voice like staccato notes on a piano.

She turned turned to Erik, smiling. He was standing there, eyes wide. And he said nothing. "I...it doesn't sound real, I know, but it's interesting. And I couldn't sing like that-short bursts-without hurting my voice. So it can do things that I can't. I mean it-"

"Can you do that again? Singing a different note?"

Christine swallowed. It wasn't a rejection. Not at all. Now she grinned, on a roll. "You mean like a scale? Instead of auto-tuning it?"

"Yes."

"I can!"

Before she could move, he was at the piano again, and played her note. She sang it back, and when he nodded at the accuracy, she sang once more into the microphone. Again and again they did this, until she had all that he needed. "Can we do your voice too?"

"Mine?"

"Yes! Your voice is amazing. If you thought those tricks with my sound was good, imagine what we could do with yours. Or both, together!"

"Together...?" His eyes glazed a little. He put so much stock in her own ability, didn't he know the magnitude of his? "If you wish. Yes. Yes if you  _wish_ I will." Now he smirked a little. "On your cue, madam."

They repeated the process with his vocalizations, then stood, heads close over the computer, each with an earphone. Listening to Erik's golden voice was a joy. Having him near her, interested in her teaching him was like a drug: addictive. It took Erik a bit to adjust from staff paper to the way the program laid out the notes, but once he did they began to create. He would point and she would place clips of their voices in the track, playing it back for his approval. They had recorded in different keys, and thus created an effect of her light soprano answering back his baritone over the swell of the piano (he had already adjusted or added the notes she had missed in her memory).

Christine like to play with the effects, creating distortion or and echo. The first Erik didn't care for at all, but the latter he found he was fond of, especially for her higher angelic notes. Finally they listened to it in full, both of them smiling as the file slipped by, now dense with clips.

"Wait here." He gently took her computer and stepped down from the stage into the shadows orchestra pit. She waited, peering to see where he went in the darkness. Suddenly a light came on, revealing Erik inside a room under the seats of the opera, just behind the conductor's station. He was fiddling with something out of sight, and above her she heard the static of the hidden speakers coming to life above her.

Grinning, Christine understood what he was doing. He was going to play the piece on the speakers so that it filled the entire theater.  _Their_ music-because it was now, so much more than his lovely lullaby. Something they had created together, something he with all his musical talent deemed good enough to work on. Pride swelled in her chest, and she felt her eyes sting.

He complimented her, of course, during their work. But she had never really shaken the feeling of being a young student, just trying to catch up. Trying to match his command of sound with her feeble little songs. But if he wanted to hear the piece she had brought to him, that she had started in his theater...he must like it.

He must be proud of her, in someway. She must have created something that spoke to him, on the level he seemed to touch with such ease, the level her father's music had also reached. When she heard the first notes of the piano echo around her, Christine had a sense of arriving. Where to, she wasn't sure. But she knew she wanted to stay, stay where her work echoed back at her. Where her music-their music-lived.

 _Home_.

Erik hurried out of the sound booth and scrambled back up onto the stage. He fled behind the curtain for a moment before returning with his violin. Counting the beat silently, be began to play counterpoint, the new notes soaring over their vocalizations sparing with each other with the deep humming synth beat.

His eyes closed and he simply began to play by feel, rocking back and forth in in tempo as his finger flew over the strings. His face, what she could see, relaxed into pure bliss as he was swept away by their music. She could see the sound live through him, and for the next few minutes he was beautiful.

Christine had never seen him play that way. Oh tunes on the piano, yes, but not losing himself to the music. It was not just the violin, his whole body was the instrument. He held the wood lightly, the bo dancing across the strings, making them sing, coaxing sound rom them as he so often did with her.

When the last echo faded, Erik opened his eyes to find Christine standing right before him, tears in her eyes. "You..." But she couldn't go on. It seemed to crass to break the heady silence now. She lowered her head, wiping her tears away. He had lost himself in something she had created, and he had played for her again. Lost his strict control and let his own voice fly. Happiness seeped through her veins, filling her with warmth, and the genesis was the look he was giving her. His mismatched golden eyes soft as they sought out her face.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I think I understand a little more now. About your synthesized sound."

Christine let out a watery laugh. "I'm just glad you didn't rage at me for destroying your music."

"Rage? No!" He clutched his violin to his chest. "You memorized my music! You replicated it by sound, you were listening!"

"I always listen when you play," she insisted. "Your music is beautiful!"

"I have never played them for anyone else, not my own pieces," he admitted, and Christine's eyes watered all over again. She had never really thought about what his reclusive life meant outside of the secrecy their lessons held. Had he truly never let anyone else in as far as her? Not even detective Khan?

"I would not have thought that piece anything more than a simple tune, a lullaby to relax you between exercises. I never would have thought to put a beat to..." Then Erik jumped back, bow raised in triumph. "You were a  _drummer_!"

After a moment of stunned silence, Christine burst out laughing. "You got it!" Clapping her hands she explained, "It was my feeble attempt at teenage rebellion. My father wanted me to play the violin, and Mom wanted me to get serious about the piano. But I love drumming, I like a great beat. I like to dance too, that may be part of it. But I'm nowhere near as good as my friend Sorelli-she does ballet and jazz dancing in her off time."

Erik threw back his head and laughed, almost like a drunkard, high on victory. "I told you! I told you Erik would figure it out! And now you must  _perform_!"

"Oh no!" She stepped back. "No way, it's been forever!"

"One does not forget-you did not forget how to sing."

"It's completely different! It'll be awful!"

"All the same." He took her by the wrist and pulled her down into the orchestra pit. There was a drum set there, not put away from rehearsal. Christine sighed, knowing there was no stopping him.

"Alright ,but I'm warning you I'm really, really rusty." She sat on the stool and tested the bass pedal. "Hey, do you know how to fiddle?"

In answer, Erik lifted his violin to his chin and waited, poised. Finding the sticks she tested out a few beats before falling into an old favorite. After a few moments, her teacher joined in, following her beat and dancing his tune along in time. After the first song, Erik started playing, encouraging her to follow him. Back and forth they created again, playing known tunes and making a few things up as they went. After a while, muscle memory kicked in, and Christine felt comfortable once more seated behind her drums and hitting out a rhythm.

With a last hit of the crash cymbal, Christine put up her hands in surrender. "I give! I'm all played out."

Erik nodded, lowering his bow. A few hairs had come loose in their music making, and he too seemed to be breathing a little heavier. "Indeed. Thank you Christine. That was...invigorating!"

She laughed and stood, but froze when she heard clapping. Erik too seemed to go stalk still. He held up a finger before returning to the stage. Christine kept to the shadows of the orchestra pit, but twisted to watch him. Erik peered into the darkness of the theater.

And then he snarled-truly snarled lips pulling back over bared teeth. " _Charles_."

"That was very nice, Erik." The voice she heard was friendly enough, and was coming closer in time to the heavy footsteps down the aisle.

"It is after hours. What are you doing here? Your manager is not here for you to protect!"

"He isn't my manager, damnit, Erik. He's the manager and he's been doing his job! Why can't you see-"

"I see every night that woman is on MY stage shrieking in MY theater."

"It is not just  _yours_!"

Her Maestro brought himself up to his full height, his hand tight on his bow. She swore she heard the creak of wood. "Maestro," she said softly.

"Who was that?" Suddenly a face peered over the edge of the pit from the front row. A man, middle aged and a little pink in the face peered down at her. His brown hair was combed neatly, and he wore suspenders under his tweed suit jacket. "Christ there's a girl here! Who are you?"

"Why are you here," Erik demanded again moving closer to the edge of the stage, as if he were protecting Christine from his questions. "Why are you interrupting my work?"

"I came here to talk to you. Who is this? Is this who was playing before? I thought you were playing against a recording."

"Talk and  _leave_."

"Does Nadir know you have a girl here?"

"Nadir does not have mastery over my life!" Erik was screaming now, hunched as if ready to leap across the pit at the man.

"Hey! Hey, wait a minute." Christine didn't even bother with the stairs, hualing herself up on stage between Erik and the intruder-Charles. She had never seen her teacher this angry, not even a few hours ago. Frustrated yes, exasperated even, like before. But never rage filled. Her veins had depleted what ever warmth their creating gathered, and she began to shiver as if chilled. Erik was scaring her, with his glare, his fury. She'd never seen him so transformed. "Her name is Christine Daae. And if I don't want anyone knowing about my lessons, then no one will know!"

"Lessons?" The man dropped into a theater seat. "Lessons? You're teaching her?"

Erik didn't answer, and Christine wondered if he was beyond words. Her stomach dropped a little more. Maybe she shouldn't have let that slip. "Yes, he's helping me. And, excuse me, but you are interrupting Mister...?"

"Charles Garnier."

That name rung a bell. Where had she heard it before? Oh, she hadn't. She had read it. He had help build this theater. Erik Khan and Charles Garnier where the names mentioned.

"What did you come here to talk about," Erik hissed, his voice low. He was as taught as his damaged bow, nearly humming with barely suppressed fury. Christine put out a hand, but was afraid to even touch his arm.

"To bury the damn hatchet Erik." Once more Christine was ignored as Charles stood coming around to the stage and hefting himself upon it. Still, Erik's student placed herself between them, but protecting who was still in question. "Firmin has brought in the money to keep the lights on. Even you have to admit that-"

"But has his ideas finally left a sour taste in your mouth? Have you been included in all the meetings, hmm? Finally realizing what...what drivel he is dragging into the building?"

Charles folded his hands, and seemed to pray for calm. "But he is Carlotta's man."

Erik laughed again, the same drunken peel. But it wasn't victorious now. Now it sounded almost...demonic. "Finally found that out now,  _eh_? Eh? Haha! Oh what poetic justice."

Charles ran his tongue over his teeth. "He asked to see the blueprints of the building. Carlotta is renegotiating her contract and she wants a bigger dressing room."

Erik gasped. "She wants to alter my building!"

" _Our_  building, Erik. I told him no, and he went on about having to keep our star and sales."

"And?" Erik stepped closer, but no longer looked ready to fight. "And? And! Well man what did you say to that?!"

"I told him no, again," Charles cried, throwing up his hands. "I won't let some spoiled diva cut into the plans we poured our blood into! Christ Erik, I know you're angry but what do you take me for?!"

Erik placed his violin down and began to pace the stage. "Insupportable! Insufferable! Intolerable," he raged, fingers curling and uncurling into fists as he moved. Christine wrung her own hands, watching him prowl like a caged animal, hackles raised and snarling. Where had her soft spoken teacher gone?

Charles however, seemed unfazed. He finally came to her, hand outstretched. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you, Miss Daae did you say?"

"Yes." She shook his hand, and was immediately glad for the warmth that radiated off it. She was numb with shock, and more than nervous. "Pleased to meet you."

"Erik has never, ever taken students before. You must be quite talented."

"He seems to think so."

"What do you play?"

Before Christine could answer, Erik had reached a decision. "I will speak to our beloved Firmin. Not even Reyer can stand this woman, and demanding changes to my theater!"

"R-reyer," she asked softly. Christine was a little lost in this current drama. Though, technically, it was her drama. Or would be if she supplanted the diva. Which, at this very moment, was the last thing she ever wanted to do.

"Our conductor," Charles supplied. "The only one Erik seems to be on regular good terms with."

"The man has something going on here," Erik said, tapping his temple hard enough to make a knocking sound. Christine winced for him.

"Anyway, I hoped you would."

"Now you find my talks convincing! La! Nadir was telling me how un-fun you thought they were!"

"That was before Firmin stopped listening to me."

"Can..." Christine lost her voice when both men turned to look at her. Clearing her throat-Erik winced and gave her the familiar Maestro reproachful glare-she asked, "Can Carlotta actually change the building herself?"

Charles shook his head. "No. I own the building, and Erik is the landlord. The two people they can go to won't let them. But this is the last in a long list of demands."

"She has say in what operas play," Erik snapped.

"Yes. That was in her contract."

"Oh..." Christine understood a little. Erik was an owner in a way, and when she had asked all those month ago why he couldn't fire Carlotta, he had told her he did not have the same sway as he  _used to_. This must have been what he meant. "Oh no."

"Her tastes are self serving, to say the least," Charles supplied.

"Self serving to say the least!" Christine jumped slightly. A high pitched mimic of Charles' words seemed to come from the man himself, but his lips never moved.

Charles lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Really Erik."

Christine turned to her Maestro, who was smirking now, arms still folded. He had done that? He could throw his voice! Her lips parted in awe, and in her left ear she heard a good imitation of her own voice "Oh wow Maestro!" She batted lightly at her ear, still a little shocked.

"If you're done showing off..." Charles sighed.

"Well now that you've finally seen sense, Charles, I will speak to Firmin." Erik leaned against the piano, crossing his ankles casually. The rage that had enfused him a moment ago seemed drained; being right had soothed him. "Though, for all your worrying it won't be much of a problem in the end. Carlotta is getting on in years. There is always someone younger and ready to take a diva's place-anyone's. Theater life, you know."

Charles' eyes slid to Christine. "Hmm. I suppose. But talk to him Erik. No more, do you understand?"

"Don't be such a boring little fart, Charles. You're worse than Nadir."

"His constitution for your antics is stronger than mine." Charles sighed and turned to Christine. "I'm sorry for interrupting your lesson, Miss Daae."

"You're forgiven this time. Now go away," Erik snapped.

Christine glanced at her teacher, shocked at his rudeness. But Garnier sighed. "Don't worry. This is normal. A pleasure." He held out his hand again.

"Same." She shook his hand again and mustered a smile. Once he had left, Christine finally turned on her Maestro. "You were so rude!"

Erik's eyes widened at her chastisement, whether from the validity of it or the fact that she was dressing down her teacher. " _Rude_? Rude! Bringing that man into my theater, and I am rude? Having that woman run roughshod over everything I have built and I am rude?" Erik gestured to the empty seats, the boxes and the sage around them. "I built this! I created this! I bankrupt myself to make this happen, the only thing the the world I've ever truly wanted, and she threatens to corrupt it all and I'm  _rude_?"

"To Mr. Garnier," she said. "You were so angry! You...you scared me."

Erik's arms fell, his shoulders hunching around his ears. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed firmly on her sneakers. All at once, the smugness, the anger, the indignation bled out of him. Now, before her stood the man unsure, the man that had been so embarrassed by a passing joke in a cafe store. Her head hurt a little trying to reconcile the two. They had gone from anger to ecstacy to shame all in the space of a few hours, and she was thrown off kilter; and more than a little tired. "Erik would never harm you, Christine. I did not mean..."

"You looked like you were gonna strangle him."

"Erik would never harm Charles. But the man doesn't see what he does! I understand the ways of the world, I am not a child. I know the theater needs money, but to...to whore out my theater just for the sake of profit!" He shook his head, shivering at the idea. "It...it has been a long standing struggle. It has come to a head many times. Erik may become angry but he would not harm his partner."

"Alright," Christine said slowly. He had shown some of that anger at her, just before and still he had not moved to touch her, had calmed himself before their argument was heated. This time.

"Please." He stepped closer, holding out a hand. "Please. Let me play for you. We played so beautifully before. We created music, together. Erik and his student created something beautiful. Do not let your poor Erik's harsh words ruin a perfect memory. Do not fear your Maestro."

His student glanced around them. Her computer was still in the sound booth, his violin laid on the piano he had used for her lesson. She was still holding the drumsticks in one hand. They had created music. A glance at her watch told her that they had been working on her computer for hours, and played for more. It as almost midnight. And it had been wonderful, to lose herself in the act of creation, using her head and not just her voice. And he had enjoyed it-he would not have played so beautifully to their music if he hadn't. He would have treated her attempts with the same scorn as the idea of Carlotta if he had not been pleased. But instead he had moved past his snobbish tastes and given her a chance. And loved it. She had changed her firm Maestro's mind.

It was a perfect memory. Theater people-music people were passionate people. She'd seen 'artistic differences' before in the conservatory and most of them weren't exactly civil. It didn't make it better...but if this diva was threatening to destroy part of Maestro's theater-one he had sunk his entire life into. Well, of course he would be defensive. He was simply...enthuzed for his cause. She wanted to believe that; she had to.

"I don't like fights like that," she convicted at last, and stepped forward, her eyes dropping to his hand. His bare hand.

He could not play violin in those gloves, after all. His hand as just as long fingers as it seemed, and encased in pale grayish skin. She could see the veins clearly in his wrist, and there wasn't an ounce of softness or fat in that hand, the bone clear through the papery flesh. She had to guess when he refused to remove his mask, that he had a skin condition. This seemed to confirm it. Erik realized what she was staring at, and immediately pulled back.

But Christine's hand shot out, clasping around his fingers before he could. If he could stand her touch, she would give it. It had been rude to stare, and mean to look so shocked. Shame reddened her cheeks and she held tight as he weakly tugged from her grip. His flesh was cold, but smooth like marble. Christine could feel the bones as clearly as she saw them, but it was no different then holding the hands of an elderly man. Whether time or condition ravaged his hand, it was still just a hand. Just her Maestro's hand. She'd held it before after all. Smooth and soft on the back, with rough hard working palms and calloused violinist fingertips.

Now that she came closer, she looked at his mouth, visible by his white mask. They were thin and pale as well, the same bloodless color, like the flesh of a man dead. They parted now, to speak, to rebuke her. Would he pull away in shame, order her to go? Or fall to his knees as she feared?

Christine beat him to the chase before he did any of those. "If you're not tired, I'd like to hear you play. But something short-I'll have to call a cab. No buses are running now."

Erik was staring at her hold, mouth agape. She heard him take his next shuddering breath, his eyes closing shut. "Christine," he whispered. "Christine..."

"Maestro? Are you tired? Maybe I should go."

"No!" Now his hand tightened around hers. It didn't hurt, but she couldn't pull away. "No, no not yet. Not while you're standing here, holding my...my hand. Not when there's more music to be had." Then his voice changed, became the rational teacher again. "And Erik will drive you home. I will not have you wondering the city at this time of night."

Christine nodded, and her Maestro let her go, descending once more into the orchestra pit, to the sound booth and retrieve her laptop. She flexed her hand. Though his flesh had been cold, it left her own flushed warm. ' _Not while you are standing there, not while you're holding my hand_ '. That's what he had said. Not that he wanted to teach her more, but he wanted her to stay because she had held his fingers.

She was going down a path that would shift their whole dynamic. Subscribing something more than fascination with talent to their partnership...to their relationship. But what if her Maestro was having the same struggle? What if Erik had thoughts like her?

What if he found her just as alluring, just as beautiful as he was when he played?

Tears crowded her eyes, and she wasn't sure why. She was too tired, too emotional from the constant tug and pull of emotions. Christine had to turn her back to the front of house, and held her flaming cheeks. She did not want to lose these lessons. Not when they had discovered something new, not when she had become his own maestro in so many things. And if there was something there, something burning low and simmering, to add fuel to it by acknowledging it could burn their beautiful structure to the ground.

She must not let it happen. She must stop these ridiculous thoughts. She must, to save them both, and this place that was almost like home.

"Christine?" He was by her side now, holding out her closed laptop. In this lovely theater, the stickers on the top seemed garish and too colorful; childish. She took it and bent to tuck it in her bag. Erik stood beside her and wrung his hands. "Christine, there are tears in your eyes. Erik has harmed you."

"I'm-I'm just tired," she murmured, beyond glad her voice was steady.

"Then I will not play."

"Oh! No I want to hear-"

He held up a hand. He had replaced his gloves while she stood there lost in her thoughts. "No. You are exhausted, and your life must be sorely missing you. Erik will take you home, and you will go straight to bed and sleep as much as you can. Saturdays you do not work, correct? Then you will sleep your fill."

Erik disappeared again and returned with his overcoat and fedora. Not the trilbies young men in the cafe always wore, tossed jauntily on their bags as they worked on school work at the little tables. A real dashing felt fedora that he placed elegantly on his head, tilted fashionably. Maestro maybe moody, and strict and perhaps had too much of a temper, but he was a sharp dresser.

He led her back stage, weaving between the sets and discarded props. Had she been less tired Christine's curiosity would have stopped them a million times over. But she could always ask later, and now she had to concentrate on one step at a time. With the adrenaline of music gone, her body sagged under the weight of being up at six and pulling an eight and a half hour shift before an 'hour' long lesson.

Out a side maintenance door, the cold October wind whipped at her face. Here, outside the walls of the theater, the world moved on, the lights bright and garish on the deserted side street that led into the car park for the opera house. Erik's jaguar was parked in the first spot, and he came around to the passenger side to open it for her.

The leather seats were supple, and she sank gratefully into them. When he was seated beside her, the first thing he did was turn on the seat warmers. She sighed happily, her head lolling back against the rest. "This car is beautiful."

"I like beautiful things."

That voice, the soft timber that he used outside of the theater warmed her just as much as the heaters. His honeyed voice was so beautiful and had so many facets. Showman, singer, ranging Maestro, hissing demon, trickster god. So many people wrapped up in her Maestro, she wondered which was the one that was truest?

The car silenced the hum of the road as he pulled out onto the highway. Christine rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stay awake. Once they got to Montclair, she'd have to give directions to her little flat in Caldwell. "Maestro?"

"Mmm?"

"Why do you say my life will be missing me?"

"It does. When we are in lesson, you are away from your current work, your friends, your home. If I keep you, they will miss you."

"Yes. But you're my life too," she murmured, watching the street lights flash by. "Our music is my life, even when I'm away form the theater. I think I've proven that." She rolled her head to the side to look at him. Mistake.

He had to recline his seat to make up for his height, and he drove with his hand lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel. He was like a leisuring cat, elegant in repose. The white of his mask reflected the streetlights, softly glowing form the rest of his black clad attire. She felt her stomach drop a little at the sight. It was...inviting.

But then his hand slid up the wheel to grasp it tightly. "Christine."

"It's true. And if I start to audition, and really go on your stage, that will be my life won't it?"

"Yes. Your new career."

"You'll still be my teacher, won't you?" Christine's heart tightened. "You won't just leave me to the conductors and directors, will you? I'll always need coaching." Not that she was even sure she'd go through with this plan. But to think that she may, one day, be insane enough to step on stage and sing and know that her Maestro was no longer there, no longer watching and expecting and encouraging. It chilled her to her very bone.

"Christine please," he whispered. "Please do not worry so. You will never be without your Erik. But he cannot..."

"Can't what? You'll be with me. That's it. You're in my life. I mean I gave you number after all."

Erik's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Yes. But you are exhausted. Your mind is laying traps for you, and Erik does not wish to see tears in your eyes again. Where do I turn, after the cafe?"

She told him the basic route, and before she was ready they were slowly pulling up to the side of her building. Once more, he stepped out, coming around to open her door. She took his gloved hand and heaved herself out of the low car. "Thank you for the ride. I know it's a long way."

"It was my pleasure." He shook a finger at her gently. "Sleep immediately. And do not rise until the sun is well up."

"Yes Maestro." Christine looked up at him, his eyes still softly glowing under the brim of his hat, those eyes that were so oddly clear in the dark. She always had to tilt her head back just to look at him, he dwarfed her so. Her hand squeezed his gently. "You need sleep too, you know."

"Erik manages," he said, seemingly unable to let her go as well. His breath was warm against her cheeks. He smelled like the leather of the car and honeyed tea tonight. He was standing barely a foot away from her, his body blocking the chill of the wind.

Erik was gazing at her, and Christine wanted and feared him lowering his head; that she would learn tonight if the skin of his lips felt the same as his wrist.

Behind them there was a small crash of metal. A stray cat meowed somewhere in the shadow, and they heard his claws skitter across the sidewalk as it ran off. Erik whipped around towards the sound, peering into the darkness just outside the glow of the lamp light. Seeing nothing, he turned his gaze back to her. "Go. Go to bed."

Christine nodded and hurried to open her building door. Up the stairs she stepped into her apartment, the warmth of home feeling suddenly empty and dark. Turning on the lamp by the door only helped her see. Without thinking, she was at the window, wanting to get one last glimpse of his car.

She got more than that. He was standing beside the Jaguar, looking up at the building. Waiting to see if she was safe inside. Christine pulled back the curtain, and pressed a hand to the glass. When he noticed, she waved. Erik bowed slightly, before sliding back into the driver's seat. In the next moment he was gone.

Christine watched as his taillights faded into the darkness of the street. Her forehead rested against the cool glass of her window with a small thud.  _Don't think. Don't dream. Don't go there_ , Christine, she chided herself.  _Don't think about that moment, or any of the moments tonight, or in the last months where he looked at you so...adoringly. Not when you just got everything in order. Not when you just avoided everything falling apart. Not while it's still good._

No, she couldn't let herself imagine kissing her teacher. Could not imagine riding in his car, their hands entwined, standing by this window every other night as he waited to catch one last glimpse of her. There was danger in pondering these moments as precious, rather than routine. Her eyes squeezed shut as the tears that had risen and ebbed all night finally fell.

She was a damned coward. She had been scared to sing again, scared of music again, then scared to perform again. And now she was scared of the man that had robbed her of that fear. Damn her fantasy heart, damn all those fairytales, damn all those stories, and damn the perfect love her parents had that left her now so bereft. And damn her too for feeling the absence of it all, and not using that pain to move on. To heal.

In the end, Christine was afraid of living. And she wept for her own lack of courage.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The album Erik mentions and the one that inspires Christine is Synthesis by Evanescence
> 
> For a sense of what they did to their voices listen to All About Anna by Cellogram


	5. Chapter 5

He must look.

He mustn't turn away. Erik had to stare into the mirror and look at the horror that stared back at him. His mask clutched in one hand, he stood in the men's bathroom of the theater and stared at his sisyphic burden. He had to remind himself what he was. A creature, a thing playing at a man. A murderer, a monster attempting to be a maestro. He was vile and ugly, his soul rotten from within. He was the devil, for even the devil could quote scripture; the devil could create beauty for his own ends.

He had scared Christine. His vile temper, born from years of nurturing it like a mother to a babe. It was his child, his lover and his constant comfort; the blinding red rage he had towards humanity. The humans that had beaten and twisted him, sold him and used him. Made him a murderer. Made him  _enjoy_ it.

But no. It was him as well. Humans made him, and he allowed them. He was weak, a cowering monster who could do nothing but destroy. Could only snap and hiss and drive the light away. He had scared Christine, because she had seen the true man beneath. The Phantom who wore Erik as a mask.

She had taken his music-oh she had liked it! She didn't know it was all for her, that every song he played for her he wrote for her. It would drive her away. If she knew, she would come to her senses, even an angel's pity had it's limits. She would realize this demon wanted her and she would rightly flee. He did not deserve to be with her, he did not deserve to put notes to paper and try to describe her through song.

But compose he did. The lullabies he would sing her, if she would let him. She had thought it was a love song-they were all love songs in a way. He played her the romantic, the sweet, the loving. But those were only moments, the moment's he would show her. Locked away, even from his sight were the scores he had written in the dead of night. Scribbling out notes and melodies that beat against his brain demanding release. The passionate music that he would seduce her with, if the Phantom had its way. The sounds that echoed in his brain as he thought of her, needed her, wanted her. Burned for her. His music burned _burnedburned_.

But into the mirror he must look. This is what he was. His ugly face, dressed in long healed scars. What girl would take this face to her bed? What woman would allow this face to love her? He could not have what he desired. He had to remember why and remember that these were stolen moments, he and his student.

He was a thief, and these lessons, this girl, was his little prize. He paid for it with secrecy and torture. For every moment she was near and gentle and sweet to him was an unending torture. He wanted to reach out and touch her, and see his hands on her and have the kindness stay in her eyes. He could see it, in the theater of his mind. He would confess all, cry out every word of love he had for her and she would accept him, his fantasy Christine. Maybe have her accept his touch, rather than endure. These ghosts of futures that could not be ripped slowly at his heart, shredding whatever was left to pieces. Because it could not be.

Because that burning, red Phantom would stretch out his hand and take her and use her, and turn her to ash. It would make her what once was: cowering crying and weak only to prove that he was strong enough to do so. That he was the whip master, no longer the whipped. And she would walk so willingly into that trap. Ever love opera he played on the stage of his thoughts soon turned to horror under The Phantom's direction.

But, oh...he had held his hand so dutifully. Christine, such a good girl! Such a good girl to swallow the horror of seeing his corpse hand, and had actually touched it without shuddering! Even said that he was apart of her life, as if he were important to her. As if she wished him to be with her in anyway he could be. She did not know what she did! Her touches were innocent, free of malicious intent! She only meant to be kind, Christine always so kind. It was he, he the poison that infected their bond, that took such sweet gestures and turned them into objects of sinful desire.

His forehead pressed into the glass.  _Look! Look at you! Do not think! Do not think of holding her hand, of kissing those fingers. Do not think of touching those curls and lifting her face-she had to lift so far just to see! So tiny was she, so delicate but soft_. So soft, how soft she would be under his mouth, how gently he would kiss her pretty lips, her cheek. Kiss her throat that produced such a heavenly sound.

 _Disgusting_! This was why he could never play her his music, see her face flush with passion. Never see her reach for him and accept all he had to give, his tender love, his burning passion.

No! No no no! He shut his eyes, willing the thoughts to disappear, to retreat like mist in the morning. No he could not think of that, could not defile her even in his dreams. For surely such dreams would bleed into reality. She would see the evil leech from him like shadows from the night-and then she would be gone!

And now a new act began, curtain rising on a scene more likely to play. He could hear her now, echoing in his ears, her cries of mercy. Her pleading, crying, that lovely voice cracking as she struggled in his wanting hands, pinning her down and taking their fill. That face, that throat, that soft sweet skin hidden by cloth and modesty. Caressing touching, needing as she struggled like a little butterfly pinned to paper.  _"Please Maestro, don't! Please! I'm sorry! No! Please!"_

"Please no," he cried to his own face in the mirror. Perhaps it was madness, but Erik could see his face, his reflection twist into sinful pleasure. Saw the dead cracked lips turn up into a smirk in the mirror. And when he shut his eyes again, he still saw it, that grinning visage trapped in glass, laughing at his heart, as his compassion, his weakness.

"Stop,  _stop_! Don't hurt her!" His fist connected with the glass, and there was a great shatter. Pain, welcoming sobering pain blossomed in his hand, traveling up his arm until he staggered back, falling onto the tile floor. His eyes opened to see his hand covered in blood, the knuckles torn open by the glass. All around him, his fractured, weeping monster's face stared back. A thousand accusing eyes, reminding him what he was capable of. Reminding him that he must not want.

Blood cooled by the pain and the realization of what he did, he could resolve calmly. Christine would never be his, no matter if she begged him to stay as her Maestro. The best he could have was seeing her stand on his stage, and sing with the voice he gave her. He would be her teacher, he would give her what she asked, and want nothing more of her. This was his punishment, if the law would not have him.

" _Take what you can, Erik_ ," Rookheeya's voice whispered in his ear. " _Take just what you can. Nothing is ever perfect. We all lose something along the way. Just take what is good matter how small and cherish it. Now come on. Come and help me with the dishes_."

The rest was grace.

* * *

Mrs. Giry was always so nice. Christine hated to lie to her, especially on a Sunday. But she did not think she could rise from bed. She had slept most of Saturday, and not just because she was tired. She had been, of course, after such a long night in the opera. But moreover, her heart was heavy.

She wanted to take it out of her chest and snap at it for being so spoiled! She could not have everything! She could not tuck away her lessons, as apart of her life but separate and then desire her teacher. She could not desire him at all! Besides, what if he was simply courteous? He spoke and dressed so formally, his attentions were nothing but that, weren't they? He drove her home to keep her safe, he played her music because it was pretty. What were a few hand holds? Plenty of people held hands!

But even then, he had called himself 'her Erik'. Her Erik. Not teacher, nothing so formal. He, Erik, the man, was hers if she wished it.

Tucked up in her sweats and comforter, she rolled over in bed, sighing. Picking up her phone for distraction she peered at the messages. One from faithful Meg telling her to get better and did she need anything? And four from Raoul.

She opened those in full.

.

 _Knight in Camo  
_ Hey! Just wanted to make sure you got home alright. It was really wonderful time catching up! You're still something else, Chris!

 _Knight in Camo_  
Meg told me you're sick. Feel better!

 _Knight in Camo_  
Especially because her cappuccinos aren't as good as yours, tbh.

 _Knight in Camo_  
Btw do you have lessons on Saturdays? We should grab a bite to eat, when I'm not making you late.

.

Christine smiled at her screen and typed her reply.

.

 _Me_  
Thanks so much! Just a stomach thing. Should be okay soon. Saturdays are free! I'd love to have dinner and talk more. I want to know about all the places you've been to!

 _Me_  
Send me a time and place and I'll be there.

 _Knight in Camo_  
Awesome! You like Japanese? You will once you eat here. Umi's in Wayne is excellent. Let's say 5:30?

 _Me_  
See you there!

.

Hitting send, she swiped through to the contacts and started at the new name 'Maestro' logged in there. After a moment of second guessing, she tapped the number and opened up a new message. After writing and deleting for several moments she settled on

.

 _Me_  
I slept just as you said. I know you manage, but I hope you slept too. I can still hear our music though. Thank you for letting me show you. Thank you.

.

She hit send before she gave up and deleted the whole thing. Then she silenced her phone and tossed it aside. She'd look when she was braver. Besides, there was someone at the door. Sliding out of bed, she shuffled to the door, and peered through the peephole. Then she sighed, tears once again close to the surface.

Opening the door, Meg stood there, a grocery bag in hand. "I have pepto, and I have advil-I got some soup from the diner across the street and chocolate in case it's a period thing."

"Thanks," Christine murmured, her voice rough after hours of not using it and lack of tea.

"Jesus you sound God awful. I thought those lessons were supposed to be helping?" She came into the apartment and went straight into the kitchenette, pulling down the bowls. Meg had practically organized the apartment herself when Christine moved in. She knew where everything was.

But mentioning the lessons, in addition to noting how this was affecting her, broke Christine a little. She had to duck her head to furiously wipe at the tears.

"Oh my God Christine are you crying," Meg gasped. "Honey? Honey! Babe what's wrong?!" She came closer, grabbing Christine in her famous bone crushing hugs, and Christine let herself be crushed.

"I don't know," her friend whined. "I don't know anymore. It's all going to fall apart. And it's all my fault!"

Meg sighed and stepped back, leading Christine to the couch. "Sit. This is enough, Christine. I don't care who you're protecting, I don't care what you think, you're gonna sit here and eat this soup and tell me everything." She held up a finger as Christine took breath to argue. "Everything, do you understand me? Look at you, you're weeping!"

And after spoonfuls of soup, Christine did. God help her, she told it all. It was too much to hold herself. And if she was honest, which she always tried to be, she missed Meg. Though it had been settled with Erik that Meg should know something, it had felt like cheating, sill, not telling her the whole tale.

So Christine started with the opera. Some things Meg knew, like when she spoke to Angel-Christine did at least, save his real name-in the drive thru and the lessons. But the fact that their regular was her teacher, the feelings he gave her when she succeeded, their playing together, their creation. She even dragged out her laptop and let Meg listen.

"He played a violin part for it that we didn't record," she murmured weakly, as Meg's eyes widened.

"Christine, is that your voice?"

"Yeah."

"And that's his?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh my God." It was quickly becoming her standard answer for the night. "You sound...and he's...!"

"Yup." Christine sunk back into the couch, listless and spent from her confessing. Erik's voice was honeyed gold, it was magic in a soundwave, it was darkness made real, and beauty made tangible. And she knew she was better as well. To Christine it had just been cool effects to their singing. She didn't realize how it would sound to a layman like Meg.

Taking the earphones out, Meg mirrored her position. "Oh boy. Where to begin."

"There is no beginning," Christine insisted.

"Oh yes-yes there is." She tapped the computer.

"No Meg! He's not...it's all me! It's me! It's my stupid feelings coming in and messing everything up again. Just like with school! I was too sad to continue! And now, now I'm too idiotically infatuated to keep singing."

"First of all," Meg said with finality, "you weren't sad. You were devastated. Give yourself a little freaking credit. Second of all, you're the one that just told me Angel is like some recluse hermit, right? That he didn't even plan on telling you his name? But he invited you to the show, to the theater, to lessons and then-then! He let you play with his music? And you're going to sit here and tell me he doesn't have the same feelings?"

"He's not like that Meg. You don't get it. He's serious about this stuff. To him there's nothing but the music! There's nothing but perfecting it! He doesn't have time for school girl crushes! He and his partner on Friday got into this huge fight because of the diva-the lead singer of the opera house. It almost came to blows!"

"Well  _that's_ not comforting."

"He said it wouldn't have, but they were mad. He was mad. It was like someone insulted his mother. His music is him."

"That proves my point!" Meg threw up her hands. "His music is him, okay! He just let you plant your voice and your touch onto his music! And you were afraid he would hate it! But he didn't. He loved it, wanted more of it. I think he just wants more of  _you_."

Christine pressed her palms into her eyes. "But that's  _worse_!"

"H-Christine, what the hell are we even arguing about? Don't you want him to want you? Isn't that why you're all upset?"

"Yes-no! Sort of." She growled and took a pillow, pressing it into her face. She wanted to scream-but she couldn't. It would hurt her voice. "I don't want him to feel the same," he muffled voice shouted. "Because then it would change things! And maybe not for the better! I love my lessons. I love my life how it is!  _Right now_! I don't want it to change, because what if it doesn't work out?"

The pillow as ripped away from her, and Meg's glaring purse-lipped face was over her. "You are just going to have to get over it, Christine." She tugged the pillow away again as Christine reached for it. "I'm serious this time. You've always had your head in the clouds, you were always thinking about stories and music and fantasy. You were always thinking about other people's lives and other people's emotions in those stories because you're afraid to feel them yourself! And I get it."

Now Meg softened and took her hand. "I get it, babe. You've been hurt so much. Your Mom, and then your Dad. He was such a great guy. But they lived life, Christine. You can't keep running from things like this. It might not work out, and you might lose something. You're gonna lose a lot more-that's life. But for a little while you really could make something...great." She gestured to the computer. "I'm not you, but to me that would be worth it. Besides if it does crash and burn, you can write an opera about it. Isn't why they all did?"

Christine didn't want to smile at the worthless little joke. But because it was Meg, and it was her way of comforting she did. And she was right. Christine loved music because of the emotions it gave her, the worlds it took her from. But when she sang and wrote it was either for beauty or pretending at real passion. She had felt the devastating grief of course, but the bashful hopefulness, the blissful happiness...the swelling love? She only lived vicariously through characters and people long dead. It was safe and separate.

Like taking a risk on Erik's ticket, she was going to have to risk again if she wanted something real.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around Meg's neck, wanting to feel that realness immediately. She was lithe compared to Christine's curvy form, and a little skinny. But she was warm and her hair was soft against her cheek. She smelled like coffee and a floral perfume, like she had all of their friendship, through all of their hugs both joyous and comforting. Meg squeezed her tight, as if to promise that, though she may lose somethings, Christine would never lose her sister.

"I just can't tell him all of this, though," she concluded, pulling back. "Not all at once."

"Well yeah, you don't wanna sound crazy. But I mean if you stopped stopping yourself maybe things will...progress. You know? Naturally."

"Not much about this is natural. He's a lot older, reclusive and I'm not exactly all together myself," Christine laughed.

"Well yeah, but it's good, y'know? You need someone willing to put up with your crap and he's seemed to survived, what, eight months?" Meg smiled and shrugged. "If he's staying, I say slap sticker on him that says 'Daae Property: Fuck Off'."

Christine giggled, imagining Erik's reaction to such a thing. "He'd never allow it. He doesn't curse-he almost fainted when he saw our playlist, remember?"

"You need to play him some songs off it."

"No way! He'd kick me to the curb!"

She waved a hand and picked up the earphone again. "I wanna listen one more time. Then let's rent a movie or something. I'm beat and ready to dig into that chocolate."

"I'll get it." Rising from the couch, Christine felt like she was shedding a thousand pounds from atop her heart. She floated happily into the kitchen and 'ooh'ed over the goodies Meg brought. Ripping open a Three Musketeers (and swearing she'd drink five thousand gallons of water to make up for the sugar) she went to fetch her phone. The little light blinked blue, indicating a message.

.

 _Maestro_  
Thank you Christine. You have humbled and honored me greatly by your interest. Perhaps we could do more on Monday? I something that might spark your creativity, and we must take a break from lessons this week in any case.

.

The happiness she had felt slammed straight into a brick wall.

.

 _Me_  
Why? Did I do something wrong?

.

She sent it without thinking, wanting an immediate answer. Only after she read it, did she realize how it sounded.

.

 _Maestro_  
Of course not, silly child. Never. But your Maestro had been very careless and damaged his hand. He cannot play the piano accompaniment until it heals. I apologize.

 _Me_  
Oh no! Are you okay? What did you do? Is it bad? What happened?

 _Maestro_  
Broken glass. A few stitches, nothing more. But I do not wish to risk permanent damage to my hand.

.

Stitches? Christine frowned and had the sudden ridiculous urge to drive down to Jersey City...and then she realized she didn't know where Erik lived. He certainly didn't live in the opera house for goodness sake.

.

 _Me_  
Oh no! Poor Maestro! Yes, please rest. We can find other things to work on.

 _Maestro_  
You are a very good girl, Christine. Thank you.

.

"Hey! What's the hold up, where's the chocolate?" Meg's voice brought her back to reality. The movie, the listless afternoon they were about to have. She looked back at the scant few text messages. No, she wouldn't let loose all the feelings she had all at once. But she would not allow herself to skitter away from it anymore. Let him reject her-at least she would have told the truth. It's time she started living life.


	6. Chapter 6

"I think you should come stay with me for a few days." Nadir watched Erik in pure shock as he tried to text with his left hand. His right was held at an angle as the doctor finished the stitches. The man had barely even spoken on the thing since Nadir gave it to him. He had given up hoping for replies, though he dutifully sent a message once in a while just in case. He had told Erik that he needed to have it, in case he ever relapse, but it was a piss poor excuse. Once Erik decided building the opera house was more important than addiction, Nadir was sure he'd never return to it.

And Nadir had watched him take an ice pick and carefully, methodically, crack the screen. He knew the reason why, he never balked at the rudeness of it. Balking at Erik grew stale years ago. Why Charles continued to moan about their mutual friend was beyond him. At least when it came to his manners.

"No," Erik murmured, locking the screen. He didn't even wince as the doctor's needle sunk into his knuckles. He hated hospitals, and the doctor was eyeing him with gawking looks (between his grey skin and the mask), giving them both a good reminder as to why.

"Erik, you shattered a mirror with just your hand. You need to rest." More importantly, Nadir was worried about why Erik had done it. It had been a years since such a violent outburst, give or take the rows with Charles which usually amounted to nothing more than screaming. It had been quite a shock after sitting in the theater for an hour, to go searching, give up, go use the restroom before leaving and finding Erik sitting on the floor, staring vacantly at his bleeding hand.

He didn't want Erik running off to California again, getting high and trying his hardest to kill himself with poor choices.

"I am well." The masked man glanced at the detective, guessing his thoughts. "I am not leaving. My home is here. My opera house is here."

Nadir waited until the doctor was finished and left before asking, "What happened?"

Erik smiled at the opposite wall humorlessly. "I was looking at my face in the mirror."

Nadir sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. Erik never wanted to see his, admittedly, very bad, face. He never willingly had mirrors around (case in point, the black mirror of his phone). But Khan thought his friend beyond torturing himself with his reflection. Too involved with more important matters, like the opera house. "Why?"

"To remember what I am."

"And you needed a mirror to remember that you're Erik?"

The masked man turned slowly to Nadir, frowning. "Don't be willingly obtuse."

"You're not the Phantom," the detective said softly. "You haven't been since that day in my living room."

"I am always the Phantom," Erik hissed. "It is always in me. Just like the ability to kill is in you."

Nadir rubbed his face. He hated having this argument. No matter what Erik did, no matter how many people he helped put in jail; no matter how many sons Erik soothed in their times of need he would always see himself as a slave. An assassin. "Yes, Erik. But it's my choice not to act on that which makes me who I am. It's no different from you."

"Everything is different for me." Erik looked at his phone's blank screen. "I will never be able to do anything like everybody else. Even if I wish it."

Nadir lowered his head. That was true. Erik's face, his past, would alter everything he did. It would bleed into every action he took. but they need not all be bad. "Come stay with me for a few days. Eat real food, Erik, and rest. Maybe even sleep a whole night through, I know you're not."

Erik slid off the examination table, already shaking his head. "No," he said with sudden lightness. "Thank you. No. I have things to do at the theater. I'm needed. Charles and I have come to an agreement, and there's a manager I have to deal with."

"I'm glad to hear that at least. But I don't think a shattered mirror in the men's room is going to go in your favor, though."

"I can fix it. I have spare glass from when I built the stage."

"You can't with that hand. How are you going to survive without playing?" It may have seemed a joke to anyone else, but Khan was deadly serious. Wouldn't Erik go mad without his piano? His violin? When ever the case against Bin Nasheed grew to be too much, Erik went straight to any instrument and began playing. It used to bring Rookheeya to tears with it's beauty and pain, and after her, Reza. Without it, he worried what Erik would turn to.

"Erik manages," he said plainly. "I'll work on building up the strength in my left. Or maybe catch up on reading. Does that comfort you?"

"No. But I don't have much choice, do I?"

"You do not."

"So I guess it'll have to."

Erik sighed, huffing liking a walrus at the pitiful look on Nadir's face. The man worried like a mother hen. Erik would have died without his clucking. "If it will keep you calm, I will contact you to prove I can manage."

"I was going to ask about your sudden chattiness," Nadir said, jerking his chin towards the phone.

"Theater business, like I said. Things finally going right."

They walked out of the hospital, standing on the edge of her curb. Erik as searching for the number of a cab company when he asked, "Do you still keep pictures of Keya?"

That was unexpectedly painful. Nadir almost doubled over with the blow of it. But if Erik was asking about her...he had good reason. Even to this insufferable prick some things were sacred. "I do. Of course I do."

"But it brings you pain."

"Yes."

"Then why?"

"Because I loved her Erik. Do you need me to Dick-and-Jane you through it? You were there."

"No need to get testy." Erik looked up, but his eyes were distant, that same hundred yard stare he had when he had confessed all his crimes. All his past. Nadir felt the cop in him bristle at the odd combination of question and look. Something was going on, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was a hateful feeling: knowing that you know, but unable to remember just what you know.

"I keep them because they bring me joy too. Remembering that it happened. That it was real. That's why I keep Resza's things too. Erik-." He hesitated, then finally decided to be bold, putting his hand on Erik's shoulder. "If something is wrong, I can handle it for you."

"No, this is my problem." That wasn't right either. Erik answered him as if rejecting the offer of a ride. He was still so like a child. Letting a little bit out, to test the waters, make sure it was safe, then retreating immediately. "Not a problem exactly. But Erik can manage. Go Nadir. You have the night shift."

* * *

Christine entered the opera house early on Monday, carrying a box of Little Latte pastries that were expiring today. The cleaning crew was more than happy to have the leftovers, eating them on break, and it was better than them going to waste. She chatted with them happily, then left them to go into the theater. It had been an excellent day. After her chat with Meg, it felt like she was lighter than air. A set course and a set attitude, a man-woman-with a plan. Her shift had gone by quick, and Dolly Parton had come on the radio right before she left the cafe, leaving Christine humming the whole bus ride down.  _I can remember all the words, Mommy would be proud._

On her way she saw some of the boys carrying out buckets of glass. "What happened?"

"Someone broke the glass in the men's room," the younger one, Mike, reported.

"Oh no..." Erik must have tried to clean it up-that would explain his carelessness with glass. "Who would do such a thing?"

"People break in some times. Kids looking for a high. Usually they just steal some of the merch and we catch them on camera but.." Mike shrugged. "Hey, did you bring lemon cakes?"

Entering the theater, Christine was happy that Meastro was at his usual stop by the piano. Her heart flipped, and she knew she was in deep trouble.  _Not all at once_ , she reminded herself. So instead, she carried the little box of pastries and bounded down the aisle. " _Nine to five! For service and devotion, you would think that I deserve a fair promotion!_  See, I warm up at home and practise just like you ask." She bounded up the stage and placed the box on the piano. "I brought you things from the cafe to help with the healing. But I didn't know what you liked."

He clicked his pocket watch shut as she approached, swaying from side to side, singing. His lips tilted into an indulgent smile. "Good evening. Did you bring your computer?"

"I did!" She flipped open the box and let him peer inside.

"I don't care much for sweet-ruins the voice as I have explained. Is that lemon cake?"

"Sure is. Would you like something with it, sir? Cold brew?" Christine plucked up the cake with a napkin and held it out. When he took it, she reached for his right hand. "Let me see."

"See what?"

"Your hand of course." He was wearing gloves, as usual. But these were better fitting, not as tight. "You can't wear those. It'll keep the stitches moist."

"It is well enough."

Christine shook her head and held out her hands. "Please? I've seen your hands. It doesn't bother me honest. And I want to see your cut."

Maestro closed his eyes, and for a minute seemed to be praying for patience. But not the usual, aggravated prayer not to throttle his student. He looked...so sad. But, placing the cake down, he lifted his hands anyway. Coming close, she took his fingers in hers. this was the third time, but still, her tummy jumped at the contact. She tugged the gloves off. On his left hand he wore a gold ring, studded with onyx that she hadn't seen before. And his right hand jagged stitches sewn into the knuckles.

If he was trying to clean up the glass, wouldn't the cuts be on his palm? Now that tummy flip landed and sunk to her shoes. "Did...how did talking to the manager go," she asked carefully, leery of the answer.

Erik tilted his head. He was wearing a full faced black mask today, and it didn't help her trepidation. "Well. Carlotta will not be altering my opera house. Her first refusal, and the first of many I hope."

"So you didn't have another fight?"

"No…? Ah." He looked down at his cuts. "I see. No, Erik did not punch glass out of rage. I was careless, that is all."

"Then-"

"Questions! Always questions, you and your curiosity," he sighed. "Christine, must you know everything about everything? Can you not trust your Maestro?"

"I do," she said after a moment. "If you said it wasn't out of anger, then I believe you. How does it feel?"

"Sore, but manageable."

"Want me to kiss it better?" The words were out of her mouth before she could think. That was too much-idiot Christine! What had she and Meg decided on? Not all at once? And here Erik was, wide eyed and stiff under her touch.

"I...you cannot wish to!"

Christine frowned. "I do-but-I mean haven't you heard of that before? Kissing a wound to make it better?"

Erik heaved a relieved sigh. "Ah! Your jokes! I see!" But there was something a little bitter in his voice. "I doubt a touch of skin will stop the throbbing of nerve endings."

"You'd be surprised." She lifted his long fingered hand. Careful not to touch the stitches, she did not so much kiss his hand, as lift it to her cheek and the corner of her mouth with a soft 'mwuah'. His flesh as still so cold, even in the warm theater-and just as soft in her fingers.

Eriks' eyes were about to fall out of his head. Really, when was the last bit of kindness shown to him? "Ah..." He gently flexed the fingers. "I...I see. No pain."

"All better?"

"If only. Then we could do your scales."

"Uh-well it doesn't always work," she said with a cheeky grin.

"Down playing your power healing prowess to wheedle out of work, eh?" They stood together, their still joined hands hanging between them. Christine didn't mind in the least because he didn't seem to be letting go. If he wasn't then... "I want to show you something. Take your bag."

He led her into the wings again, stage left this time and into the backrooms. Here were the dressing rooms, the room here the dancer's practised before stage rehearsal and a long office room where meetings were held. It was into this room Erik led her, telling her to sit in one of the comfortable leather swivel chairs. On the long table was a leather portfolio with gold tips. DJT in gold leaf were stamped on the front. He pushed it towards her. "Go on."

Arranging her bag beside her, Christine eagerly flipped it open. Inside was a pile of staff paper, written on with red ink. Placing her finger at the first bar, she began to read the notes. In a few minutes she got the feel of the melody and was able to hum along softly. "...This is your lullaby? Our song?"

His eyes closed when she called it that. He could only nod. But the tune wasn't long enough to support this much paper. She thumbed through the rest, and it was obvious there were several pieces here, but according the the page numbers there were large chunks missing. "This-oh...this is your music, isn't it?"

"Yes. I thought you could put it into your computer. Like you did our song."

Christine sat back. "You're..." Taking the paper, she hugged it to her chest. "You're letting me see the rest of it? You didn't mind that much?"

"Not at all! Was that not plain?"

"Well yes. But I told you, I was so worried, I wasn't sure! I was taking your music and changing it!" And now he was giving her more. He didn't just love that one piece. He loved what she was doing. She grinned, and stood, ready to hug him, but stopping short. She didn't want to short circuit his system. "Thank you Maestro! Thank you!"

"You are pleased," he stated, and she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

"I'm honored!"

"Then you are ready to work just as hard on this, as your other lessons, while my hand heals?"

"Yes! Can we start now? May I put them all in? Are they all for piano? The computer can simulate almost anything-until we can record the real thing. If you want to."

"I think that best. The piano on the program was good enough for a mock up-but it pales to the real thing."

"I agree. Just like your idea to record different notes, rather than auto tuning." She hurriedly dug out her computer now, searching for a plug to charge it in. They were about to use it to death. Most of Monday was spent recording each piece into the computer's program, giving them something to play with.

During the week, they spent much of their time in the office or in the orchestra pit, recording her drumming, or playing around with their voices in the effects. Most of the songs were sweet and lovely, but Christine's imagination could shift them to anything; fast paced anthems from sweet sonatas, or slow haunting melodies from the tinkling simple tunes. There were times they disagreed, Erik flat out refusing to change the feel of some of them. But other than that, they had the freedom to try anything they wanted.

Sometimes they would go through the work of recording their vocalizations and a beat to something, then scrapping it within the next hour and starting all over again. These 'lessons' went on much longer, and she as home later, but she was ecstatic through all the sleepiness. Erik took to the new medium grudgingly, but with exceptional skill, as he did anything it seemed, and his more rigid tastes presented challenges for her she had never had before. Art from adversity indeed!

At work it was hard to concentrate and every break she was buried in her phone, texting him ideas or revisions she thought of while humming tunes on the floor. Dinner with Raoul that Saturday was a bit of a trial, as she tucked her phone away and had to push the music from her mind.

It was his turn to talk about his adventures in the Navy, and it was exciting. But most of it devolved into what his parents thought about his career. They hated it. Not only was he in danger, but he wasn't making the connections they should he should be. "Military life brings a certain ilk. They don't care for it," he explained, snapping his chopsticks apart and scraping off the wirey bits of loose wood. "I never thought they'd be like that. It's like I don't know them anymore."

"I'm sorry," Christine said, genuinely sympathetic. She thought of her father, and wondered what was worse; death or becoming someone you couldn't abide? "But your brothers supports you? And what about your sisters? You were always the apple of their eye."

"Oh yeah. Both of them, my brothers, were there at my graduation and every time I deployed."

"Your parents didn't even come to see you off," Christine breathed.

"No. My sisters did though, as well, and I kinda wish they didn't. Ouch, that sounded bad. I mean that they were treating everyone else like trailer trash. Do you know what you have to do on a ship? It's not easy, it's not entry level."

"I can't even imagine! Have you ever been on a submarine?"

"Yes, once. Thanks, but I hated it." He grinned. "I felt like I was going to collapse under the pressure. I just kept thinking of all that water bearing down on us." Raoul shivered at the thought. "But enough about me. You said you were getting back into your music?"

"Um...yeah. I'm trying my hand at writing," she said vaguely. Breaking Meg was one thing, but as dearly as she loved Raoul, she wasn't about to betray Erik a second time.

"That's awesome! Can I hear some?"

"Nope!" She grinned and clumsily tried to pick up a fried potato ball with her chopsticks. "No way. Not until I'm happy with it."

"When's that?"

"Never!" Christine laughed at his expression. "Haven't you heard? Art is never completed, it's only ever abandoned."

"That's a dreary outlook, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but it's accurate." Besides, it wasn't all hers to release.

"Oh well. I'm glad you're still into it. I mean, you seem really happy Christine. It's like you're that little Chris but...just a little taller." He smiled at her. It made his blue eyes twinkle in the low light. Christine flushed a little. She was happy wasn't she? Writing music, her friends, reconnecting with Raoul. At the moment, she was content. "So, lessons?"

"Yeah, um. Just to get refreshed on a few pointers about my singing...for my writing, you see." She drank her water deeply, instinctively knowing Erik wouldn't be as pleased with her telling Raoul about the ins and outs of their work as he would Meg.

"Is that why Chris the Coke queen is drinking ice water?"

"Oh yeah. No sweets, no caffeine and very little milk," she said, ticking off the points on her fingers.

"Oh come on, for singing?"

"Yeah, Raoul, that's the life," Christine laughed. "You can tell, and I'm sure my teacher will be able to."

"He can tell if you've have milk?"

"A little, when you sing. Which I found it a little unfair, since he drinks coffee like a monster." She giggled to herself. It was her favorite back up incase Erik grew a little to high and mighty about her habits. Despite his protests of age and care, that wasn't just a lot of caffeine for the voice. How he isn't vibrating with caffeine shakes she didn't get.

"That doesn't seem fair." Raoul tried to mask his frown. "Well you can have it on your days off."

"Nope! Gotta treat the old instrument right," she said rubbing her throat. She could see that he wasn't even trying to hide his concern and flapped a hand. "Most singers do this, Raoul. It's a part of the life."

A flicker passed through his eyes, before that boyish grin broke through once more. "I guess I'll have to just sneak you some!"

"That sounds like Raoul!"

"So I guess inviting you out to ice cream next is the worst idea." Raoul dipped some of his salmon teriyaki into his white rice before taking a large bite. "So, why don't we go concert or something like that. Or hell, even a movie. Anything. I've been missing you kid, for years!"

Christine smiled back, and cast her mind around for something they could do. She worked Sunday through Friday with only the odd day off during the week. And when she wasn't working she was with Erik. And Saturday was her beloved sleep in/errand running day. Thinking about it this way, she had certainly gotten busy, hadn't she? "Yeah-uh…"

"I think there's something going on at the PNC Art Center." Raoul took out his phone to look it up. "Yeah! Lindsey Stirling is playing Friday night."

"Fridays, ah I can't do Fridays, I have my lessons."

Again that flicker in his eyes. "They don't run all night, do they?"

"Sometimes…"

"Damn that  _is_ intense. C'mon, can't you wheedle your way out early? Hell I'll treat."

Christine waffled for a moment. She wanted to get back to writing...but she did miss the easy fun time she always had with Raoul, even if it had only been child's play. She hadn't been to a concert in forever, and to see a premiere violinist like that…why it might give her new ideas. She and Erik were currently bickering over a certain piece that they had deleted five times. He insisted it should remain totally orchestral, with the only technical support being the editing of her voice, and Christine had wanted to rip all the organic sound out. Maybe she'd figure out a way to strike a balance.

"Give me half a second." Christine's own phone came out.

.

 _Me_  
Is there any possible way to have my lesson on Saturday this week?

.

The reply was almost immediate.

.

 _Maestro_  
I am willing. Has something gone wrong?

 _Me_  
Nope! But a friend has invited me to a concert that night, and I don't want to cut our time short.

 _Maestro_  
Of course. Your life has dearly been missing you. We shall meet on Saturday, after their rehearsals. Five o clock.

.

Christine could almost hear the smugness in his voice.  _Your life will be missing you_. "You know what De Changy, you're on. But I'm paying for my own ticket."

* * *

Brimming with excitement, Christine bounded into the theater, carrying a bag of Italian food. She suspected that Maestro did not eat much, seeing as he was as skinny as a rail, and now that he was healing she had been determined to see him eat. Also their lessons lately had been running straight through dinner time.

The concert had been amazing. The violinist had danced as she played, bouncing around the stage in a way that made Christine want to get up with her and move. She wanted Erik to see her, and get his opinion on not only mixing two types of music, but two mediums of art.

He sighed when he saw the bag she was toting up towards the stage. "Erik eats, Christine. I do not understand your obsession."

"Hey, it's the only way I know how to heal!" They moved through the stage, edging around the Egyptian altars and column props towards the back room. Aida was their next production and Erik had been, in his words, 'suffering stresses that even Prometheus would pity' because of Carlotta's take on the production. Apparently she was now making an enemy of the costume department and their 'modest' necklines.

She placed the bag on the table and sorted out the food, then held out her hands for his. "Erik has some medical knowledge, he can assess his own progress," he protested as this as well, but he was already pulling off his gloves.

Christine took them and peered at the stitches. The skin was yellowish now, puckering over the medical thread. They would dissolve on their own. It was looking better now. They'd get back to their lessons soon, though she hoped they'd still have time for this. "It's looking good," she declared, her slender thumb brushing over the onyx stone of his ring. "It'll be good as new soon."

"Indeed." He took his hands back, flexing them as he always did when she touched. "And soon we shall be training again." Then he shook a finger at her. "And soon you will stop with the sugary syrups in your drinks."

"How can you possible know that," Christine laughed. She had  _told_  Raoul!

"I can smell the maple and apple on your breath. Not unpleasant, but I know that sugar is simply rotting your throat."

"I wouldn't go that far, I had to sample new drinks for work!" She flapped a hand at one of the chairs. "Sit. Eat, eat. Before it gets cold."

"I will be glad to return to our lessons." He obeyed her, pulling the box of his portion and taking the tiniest bite. "When Erik was obeyed instead."

"Oh come on, I'm not so bad." She slid into the chair next to him and poked her calzone. "After all, I left your fifth sonta mostly unscathed. Besides I have some more to show you."

"Did you write more?"

"No I have video from the concert."

Erik paused, not lifting his eyes to her. "Yes, you and your friend. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I did. It was a violinist, and she has back up band members, but…" Christine took out her phone and propped it up against her own food box. "She dances while she plays."

"Dances?" Of course, the minute Christine pressed play, Erik was absorbed, watching the girl with a half critical and half impressed eye. "That was an interesting progression...my! How she moves, that was almost a split!"

"See?" Christine grinned, watching what she could see of his face instead of the screen. The night with Raoul had been fun, both of them laughing and clapping along. But there had been moments she wished Erik was there. Though she couldn't of course envision him in a crowded theater, with speakers shaking from the volume of the music. But there were things, professional things she wanted point out that Raoul simply wouldn't get. At least not without three hours of explaining.

"Was that all you could capture," Erik asked, having pushed away the food altogether.

"No I have another, let's see." She flipped through the photos of the night, and Erik paused her finger. She had settled on a picture of her and Raoul, their backs to the stage so they could capture it in their picture. Raoul was grinning, his cheek pressed against her temple, Christine throwing up her usual peace sign.

"Your friend." Erik didn't ask, he stated it flatly.

"Yes, that's Raoul. We knew each other when we were really little-,"

"The same friend you were late for."

Her stomach dropped. Quickly she shook her head and began to explain. "Yes. He's here because he's a witness in a trial-"

"Is he," Erik whispered. His whole demeanor changed, his shoulders hunching. "A witness. A witness in a trial. A good man. They are good men aren't they? Witnesses."

"Yes, but that's why he's back. For this  _trial_. And he's just catching up that's all."

"You are having fun in this photo."

Christine shook her head. "I am, but I have fun with Meg too."

"I do not begrudge you! How queer you must think me," he said, quickly. But his eyes were narrowed at the picture, as if it were some vulgar image to cause offense. "Your life is outside these walls. Friends and your occupation."

"I told you, you're apart of my life too. Maestro. Maestro?" She waited until he looked up at her again. Christine made sure her smile was extra bright. This man had never been touched like this before, that was obvious, and he had told her flat out he had never let anyone into his world before: this world roiling with music and working and passion. If she wanted in...and she did (her heart was in her throat, beating so fast she thought she would choke), she had to prove herself.

"I am devoted to our music."

"Music," he breathed, eyes finally meeting hers. Christine almost reeled back for a second. His gold eyes were burning, staring right through her. Their food and her phone forgotten, Christine brought both her hands up to catch his, just as he done month ago, the first time they touched. Confession was on the tip of her tongue, a full bodied confession-

No, not all at once. Screwing her courage to the sticking place she continued in the vein that had begun. "Our...music is everything to me now. It saved my life. I didn't even realize it needed saving. I hear it in my dreams, even when I'm working it's all around me. Nothing even compares."

"And when it stops," he murmured softly. "If it ever stops, do you feel so alone? As if you've never been lonely before, and are just now learning the meaning of the word?"

She nodded, feeling as though he were reading those words off of the inscription of her heart. If he felt the same, and if music was so apart of them, he must understand how she felt. His eyes were watching her, so gently, wandering over the planes of her face as she nodded. Wetting her lips she began, "Maestro-"

His gaze had settled on her mouth as she began to speak. As she struggled for the correct words, his gold eyes widened. He straightened and placed their hands on the table, gently disentangling his fingers. "Good. Good, I am glad of that Christine. You have a talent." He gestured to her bag, where her laptop was stored. "You have a gift, and a lovely instrument. But you must devote yourself totally and utterly it's craft. It's a jealous thing, fickle and will leave you if you neglect it." His eyes wandered to her face again, grazing over her brow and nose and-then quickly away.

"I won't neglect it," she murmured lamely, letting out a breath she had been holding. The opportunity passed.  _Not tonight, I suppose_.

"Music speaks things you do not dare. Understanding that goes so much further than words or letters. It communicates, soul to soul." Erik took a deep breath and looked up at her again. "And if you are kind to it, it will never leave you."

 _Do you promise_ , she thought. "I understand Maestro."

"As fun and...handsome as distractions might be, they will not understand. None of them can possibly understand. They haven't the means."

The urge to defend her friend came quick, and it was almost on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. They were proving the futility of words, speaking in half truths and metaphor. "I know. Yesterday proved that. The only one I feel I can share this with is you." She willed him to understand that. A little understand, a drop before the rain storm.

Next time. Next time would see it done.


	7. Chapter 7

A month later saw it done.

"We must speak," was what started it.

"That's never good." Christine stopped on the stage, hugging her bag to her chest. Erik was not standing by the piano today, instead seated on the bench, fingers laced over the fall board. His mouth, visible by his black mask, was set in a resolute line. She felt a lecture coming on. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Oh good." She leaned against the piano. Creating music was euphoric, but she had to admit, she was missing her singing. She practised at home, like usual, but she missed the back and forth with her Maestro. It was more...intimate than constantly recording and editing. She tugged off her mittens, and wriggled her fingers, reaching for his folded ones.

"I showed you mine, show me yours." It was what she had fallen into saying before every lesson. His hands were healing well, and she didn't need to check them every other day. But their touch was electric, and guiltily, it was an excuse to touch him.

Erik sighed and pulled off his gloves, almost routine. She took his right hand and examined the stitches, gently ghosting her fingers over the stitching. He would be playing again, and he had promised to show her the organ he had tucked away somewhere. She was excited for that; it would add depth to much of their music.

"We must discuss your career."

_Oh no_. Christine forced a grin. "My repertoire has only a few songs, remember?"

"I do. But the stitches will dissolve soon, and we will build on it."

"I'm not ready to perform!" Christine stepped back, dropping his hand as if the touch burned her, her heart hammering in her chest. She had said she needed time...months ago. Yet still! She couldn't, oh she just couldn't sing in front of a crowd-or worse. Judges. "It's almost Christmas, the opera season is ending soon. There's nothing for me to audition for!"

"I am not asking you to audition. Stop fidgeting as if you were about to flee." He used his teacher voice, and God help her, it worked. Her spine straightened automatically, and she stood, waiting for his next words. "But there is a showcase being planned for the summer, here at the opera house. It is a perfect opportunity for you. It is not an audition, you'd only have to learn one piece, and it will give you the early exposure you'd need."

A showcase. She, in a line of other musicians, showing off their talent. She'd be all alone on stage, singing for a packed theater. Singing with the voice she'd given o Maestro to the cold, critical crowds. Her stomach squeezed and she felt a little queasy. "No."

"No?" Now Erik tilted his head. "No, she says.  _No_."

"No I can't do it, I'm not ready."

"I decide when you are ready, Christine. I have given you the time you-"

"No you don't, it's not your voice!" Said voice was so high and shrill by now, it echoed around them. Erik went utterly still, and did not speak for a very long while. But ironically, her cowardice gave her the bravery not to crack first. She wasn't going to do this! She wasn't going to go on there, a college drop out and show them the voice they, together, had brought.

Indeed, despite the argument she had witnessed, Christine had quite put out of her mind the reason for her lessons. Supplanting Carlotta, becoming a diva, if only to prove they didn't need the celebrity. It had all fallen totally by the wayside. They had been creating-had been with each other for so long now that it seemed…

It seemed like they were together only to be together.

Christine, fool that she was, had come no longer to learn, but to be with Erik. And she had suspected-believed-the same about him. Her heart went into free fall at the thought: had he really only been kind? All these gentle smiles, and indulgent touches, had they only been to humor her and her over excited enthusiasm?

Had he only meant her for this purpose, and this alone?

"It was not your music to cultivate," he said softly, and her mouth fell open at the low blow. "But you did anyway, and you created something  _beautiful_. No, it is not my voice, but I have worked beside you just as hard."

"That was cruel," she whispered.

"What is cruel is denying yourself, and me, the recognition you deserve," Erik snapped. "What have we been doing all this time Christine? What have we been working for?  _Devotion_ , do you not remember? Total devotion!"

She stamped her foot. Actually stamped her foot like a five year old. But the pain that radiated up her leg kept her from tearing up. Oh, she was so close to tears at all times now! Before returning to music, she was never this volatile! No, no this couldn't be happening. There was still so much to do and to say. If she started performing it would be the end of all they had created. He told her he would always teach her, but if he was planning on this showcase launching her into a career it would be different,  _they_ would be totally different. They would no longer have this precious secret time together. They'd change before she could even have him for her own…

"You told me that even if I never auditioned you'd be happy to teach me! Did you lie?"

Erik lowered his forehead to his hands, resting atop them on the fallboard. Christine wanted to shake him for the gesture. She wanted to know, did he lie? Was he just comforting her? Treating her like a child (not that she was helping that cause at the moment) and soothing her emotions at that moment with white lies?

"Erik did say that. Erik did not lie." When his head rose, his eyes blazed into her, skewering her where she stood. "But I cannot let my _personal feelings_  interfere with what is best for you." He rapped a knuckle against the fall board, accentuating his point. She wondered for a flash of a second, who he was talking to. Him or her?

To that Christine had nothing. She only knew she couldn't do it, not yet. She couldn't let people see this beautiful thing she had, have them all staring at her, expecting her to be great. She didn't want the cruel harsh, critical world picking apart what they had done. It was precious to her. It was her home, and she felt protective of it. She didn't care about their opinions, their jeering thoughts invading the one bit of peace she had carved out for herself. "Please Erik, please don't make me do this."

She heard him gasp, sucking air quick into his lungs as if her were in pain at the sound of his name. She looked up, but his hand was on the piano, flat and unmoving. "Christine..."

"I don't feel so good. Maybe today is not good for a lesson," she said quickly, before he stared another round of reasons why she should obey. Surprisingly, he nodded, letting her go. Disappointment wracked through her. She had planned on sitting with him and choosing a rift for one of his faster pieces. She had simulated three for him to choose from, like an eager student ready for praise. Now she stepped off the stage too early, a failure to her Maestro.

"Wait."

She was almost to the door, and Erik was striding up the aisle towards her. "Christine. Your Erik would never ask more of you than you can do. I know you can dazzle the world. I know this." He held out a gloved hand, having already replaced the damn things. That touch, their only real touch conveyed so much. Understanding, hurt, happiness. She slid her fingers in his, wanting to know what he was conveying now, hoping perhaps to communicate her own heart to him. His hands clasped hers, covering it completely. "I've scared you, hurt you. May...may I make it better? The hurt?"

Christine tilted her head to the side, confused. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted her hand up. Eyes never leaving her, his lips pressed against her knuckles and the sickening poison of shame was banished in an instant. Suddenly, she was all aflame, every nerve alive as his thin lips touched. They were firm, barely any lips to speak of, but his flesh had that same marble smoothness she had suspected. It lasted only a second before he parroted, "All better?"

"A little," she breathed, her blue eyes wide and glassy. Had they always been this close? Her fingers tightened over his. How could she leave now? How could she go? We he coming closer? Her eyes lifted from her knuckles to his-and she saw they were no longer gold, but had darkened to a honey with...with...

_I'm going to be kissed_ , she thought. Of course she had been wrong before, maybe she was just over romantic. Or maybe this was the only time she had really wanted someone to kiss her. But they were so close...  _The mask is going to be uncomfortable, but he's gonna kiss me. Oh God..._  His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she tilted up obligingly, instinctually. Should she close her eyes? What if they missed?  _Kiss me, please don't make me do this. Don't make me be the one to confess. Kiss me so I can accept you._

"Go. Please go. Think about it," he said softly. His breath fanned over her mouth, but he moved no closer. He was like stone to her now, unmoving, not daring to come any closer. "Think about it Christine. Please, for your Maestro?"

"Yes. For you," she swore.

He closed his eyes. "Go," he whispered, before his voice became stronger. Commanding. "Go, Christine."

Her heart was in her throat, and she could barely feel her limbs, having gone numb with anticipation. She left him standing there, slightly bent in the isle and hurried out into the street. The biting late November wind shocked her back into reality. She crunched through the blackish snow left on the sidewalk, hurrying to the bus stop, apprehension and...disappointment weighing in her stomach.

Erik almost kissed her, right there in the theater. He had kissed her hand, held it tenderly, leaned so close that had she lifted but an inch...

There was no mistaking it now. He  _did_ think of her the same way. He did want her like she wanted him. And he was unable to let go, like her. Oh what a pair they made! Sitting on the cold metal bench beneath the glass shelter of the bus stop, she pulled out her phone.

.

_Me_  
Meg, tomorrow I need to talk to you after my shift. Don't let me weasel out of it, don't' let me go. Make me talk to you.

_Megalicous_  
You can't just TEXT THAT. What's wrong? Are you safe? Are you hurt?

_Me_  
No, not at all. But I need to talk, and I know I'll be afraid tomorrow.

_Megalicous_  
ARE YOU STILL A VIRGIN?

.

She promptly ignored that message and shoved her phone away, willing her heart to slow. The fear over performing was far from her mind now. It wasn't even an afterthought. No, her next lesson wouldn't be about preparing anything. No, the next time she walked into that theater it was going to be her and Erik.

Maestro could wait.

It was only after sitting for a few minutes did she realize she had left her mittens on the stage.

* * *

Her instinct had been correct. In the cold light of morning when she dragged herself out of bed for her early shift, she wanted to talk about none of it. She'd go to her lesson the next day, and sing, and cajole Erik into pushing off a performance. She was already thinking of several good arguments to use against him, and wondered how pitiful she could make herself look. Maybe if she kissed his hand he would relent?

Christine almost wretched at her own manipulative thoughts.

But Meg Giry was not about to let that happen. The very minute Christine tapped the 'punch out' button, she dragged Christine onto the back patio snatching their coats off the hook. It was open to the public but almost no one went there; it was unofficially the staff's. "What the fuck, Christine," were her first words, shaking her friend by the shoulders. "What happened?"

Christine bluffed and weaseled her best, but Meg stood firmly, silent with arms folded. Finally, she dropped into a cold patio chair and repeated the whole episode to Meg. With each word, the blonde slowly melted, until she too sat across from Christine, hands covering her mouth.

"Why didn't you kiss him?"

"I don't know! I didn't-I wasn't thinking. He was so close and he told me to go. I just did, I didn't have the presence to stay and fight."

"Are you going to kiss him on Wednesday?"

"That's why I texted you. Do you think I should tell him?"

"I think you should kiss him," Meg practically shouted, Christine hushing her, and waving her hands, as if the motion would silence Meg's steel bending voice. "You just need to grab him and smooch him on the face!"

"You don't smooch Maestro," Christine said. "He's not a smooch person he's...he's a kiss kind of person."

"He's a  _you_ kinda person," Meg said nodding. "Kissing you on the hand? Like a gentleman, waistcoats and pocket watches? Totally up the Daae alley."

Christine blushed, cupping her flushed cheeks. It was so chilly out here, but she felt so warm! Thinking about his lips on her hand-his lips on hers. The way he said her name, like a prayer. "I have to tell him. Forget performing, I can't do anything unless this is settled...right?"

"Right!" Meg slapped her hands on the cold metal table. "Get your man! Perform later!"

"Who's performing?" Both girls jumped, seeing Raoul in his blue peacoat standing at the bottom of the patio stairs. "You, Christine?"

"Oh-uh, no. Well." Christine looked to Meg for help.

"She doesn't know if she will or not," Meg explained.

"One of your music pieces?"

"No, singing."

"Really?" He grinned and came up to their table. "I thought you said-nevermind. That'd be great, Chris! I bet you're really great now, and I'd love to hear your voice again."

"I'm not-"

Meg snorted. "You know that's a lie. I've heard you."

"You have," Raoul asked. "She wouldn't show me any of her stuff."

"She's fantastic! She's just scared."

"She's sitting right here," Christine interjected, glaring at Meg. That wasn't the point. This wasn't about performing. This was about her and Erik! And she couldn't keep talking about it in front of Raoul. Not when they were talking about the difference between kisses and what have you.

"Why don't you want to perform?"

"Because-despite what you all think, I'm not actually that good. I mean I'm better but we're talking in an opera house, with real seasoned professionals!"

"The only difference between you and them is  _maybe_ a paper degree," Meg said, shaking her finger. "You are just a scaredy cat. You always had butterflies when you were in choir, you'd pace and drive me freaking insane!"

"You should do it, Chris," Raoul said, coming up the stairs now. "You were great when we were kids-and that was as a baby! I can't even imagine what you sound like now!"

"She's wonderful," Meg continued. "Sing something, Christine!"

"No, no way." She waved her hands, standing and backing up.

Raoul smiled kindly. "I mean, no pressure. But-hey-if you sang a little right now, maybe it'll show you there's nothing to be afraid of?" He promptly turned Christine's abandoned chair and sat.

"That's a great idea! You're good for something DeChangy, who knew," Meg snickered. "Come on! Something quick! Just one song, after all you're supposed to practise everyday, right?"

Christine as wringing her hands, looking between them both. They wouldn't judge her, she knew. And they really didn't know music, they wouldn't catch her mistakes unlike a house full of music aficionados.  _If you perform, you won't need a teacher as much._   _But you'll need Erik,_  her mind whispered. Her first performance would indeed change them...but why did it have to seperate them? Perhaps, if she gave him what he wanted, it would give her the opportunity to shift their dynamic in her favor. Yes, it would change them from student and teacher. But perhaps...yes, perhaps it would give them the chance to simply be Christine and Erik. The chance to tell him she'd always need him, and not just to tell her to open her mouth wider.  _Explain to him why she acted so stupidly childish, that it wasn't just about the music. Now is the time. Live life, Christine._

Her spectacular performance as a spoiled child in front of Maestro had been a blip in her new life outlook. Children couldn't love men like Erik. She needed to grow up (she really needed to apologize for stomping on his stage, what a little  _fool_!) And she was determined to get back on track. Especially if that meant she'd get Erik's kiss.

"...One song."

Immediately they both clapped chanting 'sing, sing, sing!'. Digging out her phone she searched for a karaoke version of In  _The Air Tonight_. It was horrible accompaniment, but they were outside, with the wind of the cars speeding by to distort the cheesy music. It wasn't the best venue in anycase. And she was only doing it to see if she could.

She played the first few seconds, singing softly to find the right note. Then she started it at the beginning and placed her phone of the table. "Whenever you're ready."

Meg counted her in and pressed play. Closing her eyes, Christine began to sing. She focused on the technique, breathing, unlocking her knees, the round vowels and where to stop. But soon the song took her away, and she was able to open her eyes, focusing on a point above both of their heads, and singing to the patio railing. She no longer felt their eyes on her, no longer noticed the cars passing by, or even the cold nipping at her nose and cheeks.

And then, there was the last note, and it reigned. She chanced a look at them both. Meg had her face clasped between her hands, a grin stretching her pink cheeks. Raoul looked stunned, and if he wasn't in his chair she was sure he'd probably be on the floor. After a few more seconds Christine murmured, "Well...that's all."

They clapped enthusiastically, and thought it was muffled by their gloves, the sound still filled her with pride. She had performed, in the public! She had done it and her voice hadn't cracked, she hadn't faltered halfway through because they were watching.  _I can do this. That wasn't scary at all_.

"Oh...Angel." Meg looked stricken, staring at someone behind Christine.

Time slowed, and Christine could have fainted. She turned to look behind, to the other side of the patio. There was a second set of stairs, and there stood Erik, holding her mittens, a black stain against the white piles of snow surrounding them. Her eyes darted from the gloves, to his face-and his eyes that burned. If the mask was gone-well even then she was sure she couldn't imagine the rage that twisted his features.

"E-"

"Delilah," he shouted. The insult shocked her, her mouth dropping, body paralyzed. "You lying  _Delilah_!" He turned, racing down the steps.

"Who the hell is that," Raoul snapped, starting to stand. But Christine was already chasing after him.

"Wait! Wait, Maestro I-"

He rounded on her, and she had to skid to a stop. His face was inches from hers as he hissed. "You won't perform for me. You won't perform for  _your Erik_ , no matter what he tells you, eh? But they can convince you, hm? You will sing for them! You will sing for the wind and the stone and that... _man_! But not for Erik."

"I didn't-they're my friends! Listen to me. I just thought-"

"Your friends! And what is Erik?"

"Maestro, you're-"

"Your teacher! Ah, of course! Just your teacher! A free teacher, whose music is free to  _butcher_. Of course, I have been so  _naive_!"

Christine clapped her hands over her mouth. She felt tears prick her eyes, but this time they were tears of rage. "Oh dare you," she screamed. It made him jerk, backing up towards his jaguar as she advanced. "How dare you accuse me of that, a  _second_ time! After what I've given you, after the sacrifices I made for you! After I sang my heart out for you!"

"It seems your heart is freely given," he sneered.

"How dare you!" It was all she could think to say, the only response her brain formulated from the stinging hurt his words left. Freely given? This breaking thing that now beat for him? That she had protected and kept caged for so long, and now bleeding with each second? "When you know that is not true!"

"Erik knows  _nothing_ of you. You have proven that point quite nicely!" He grabbed her wrist and shoved her knit mittens into her hand. She didn't need to wonder what this touch conveyed. Then he was sliding into his jaguar, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street. Christine stood there, watching the red headlights disappear out of sight.

"Chris!" She stumbled as Meg nearly knocked into her. "Chris, are you okay? What happened?"

"Who as that?" Raoul was close behind, peering after the car. "What asshole yells at a girl like that in public? Was  _that_ your teacher?!"

"Chris, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Meg was whispering, ignoring Raoul's indignation. "I-I didn't realize he was there. I'm-"

"He's not hiding anymore!"

Both of her friends jerked back as Christine shouted. How  _dare_ he? All he'd given her? It didn't amount to anything but pretty noise! Not when they had each other. Not when they had shared their souls, when they were carrying each other's hearts so carefully, and now he would leave her after...after what? Doing what he wished her to do? His way or the highway? "No  _fucking_ way," she snapped again. She grabbed her purse from the patio table and stormed to her car, Raoul and Meg following.

"Chris-Chris!"

Christine hopped into her car, slamming the door shut, fumbling with the keys in the ignition. Meg was knocking on the glass of her window. "Christine, don't drive mad!"

She waved for Meg to get out of the way as she backed up. She wasn't mad, she was  _seething_. She didn't know how she made it to Jersey City, and was sure that any cop would have had a field day with her blatant disregard of the speed limit. But she was running on righteous anger and hurt. She barely made it in the lines of a spot in the garage, and only just managed to turn the car off before she was storming into the opera house.

"Where is he," she growled to poor Jules. He looked as if he had just seen Erik himself, for he was leaning against the ticket booth, white as a sheet. He could only point to the theater. Of course, she could hear the piano. "Clear out, Jules," she ordered, and he was more than happy to oblige.

The door to the theater rebounded off the wall with the force of Christine's push. Erik was there, pounding mercilessly at the keys of the piano. The sound stopped him immediately, and he stood, knocking the stool over in his haste. She was sure he was opening his mouth to say something else cutting, but she was quicker.

"Fuck you!" She ripped off her coat, flinging it into the seats as she stormed up the stage. " _Fuck_  you Erik! You come to my work and make a scene like that? You scream at me, and call me a Delilah? A  _Delilah_?! And then accuse me of butchering  _our_ music?!"

He kicked the stopper on the wheels of the piano and pushed it out of the way. It bounced off the wing wall with a sickening snap of wood and clang of notes. "You lied to me! You said you were afraid to perform! You did not seem  _afraid_ then! Was it that young man? Yes, you'll sing for him, your  _friend_ , and all he has to do is ask!"

"Is that what this is about?! Raoul?" She threw her hands in the air. "He is a friend! Oh my God, I've known him since I was two, I told you this! I barely even know him anymore!"

"So even your casual friends have more say than Erik," he sneered.

"That's not true, and you know it's not! You know that I care for you!" She didn't realize when she was crying, but suddenly it was hard to breathe. Her rage didn't stop, but tears splashed down her cheeks as she shouted. "You know I care for you! You know it's more than as a student! You know this!"

"You could never care for Erik," he said, his arms wrapped around himself tightly, as if shielding himself from her words. "Lies! You must not-no-it is impossible! You could never care for me as I-" His teeth clicked as his mouth shut. Now his shoulders hunched, and he backed away. His eyes were wide, and he shook his head, hands fisting in his hair. "No, no!"

"As what? As you do?" She stepped forward. "Tell me! Tell me, dammit! I am sick of guessing what you think! Of wondering if what I'm seeing is real! Tell me Erik!" But he did not speak, merely shook his head, his back hitting the wall of the wings, sliding down to crouch on the floor.

"You must not, you cannot know. No, you can't know me!"

Pity should have stayed her tongue, seeing him curled and frightened, so unlike the man she'd come to adore. But blind rage was still coursing through her veins, pride stung from his vicious words. "I don't know you! I know nothing about you, and I still love you! It's not fair! It's not fair that you know about me, my heart, my soul and I don't know you! I don't even know what you look like!"

She had only gestured. She had come up to him and his bent position, and waved a hand at his face. He must not have thought so. Maybe he was used to careless people ripping of his mask, for his fingers were as fast as lightning to grab her wrist. She cried out, jerking, and in the scuffle, her hand knocked the black leather on his face. It skewed, showing her a pale forehead, white as a ghost, and almost translucent skin upon which she could see every vein and curve of his skull. Christine gasped, and jerked her hand again, trying to back away, to fix her mistake. But his hold was like iron on her arm.

Erik stood slowly, his thin chest heaving with each pant. " _Know what I look like_?"

Oh, she did not like this voice at all. She knew stern Maestro, soft Angel and even hesitantly teasing Erik. But this voice, so deep and foreboding, made all the color drain from her face.

"You wish to know what I look like." With his free hand, he reached behind and tugged the ribbon that held the mask on. It fell with a soft thunk that echoed in Christine's ears.

Now she was really afraid she was going to drop to the floor. His face-Erik's face was unspeakable. The skin pale and death-gray, bleached so white in areas she wondered if it was bone she was seeing and not flesh. She could have traced the veins like river maps across his temples and forehead. His brow would have been noble and strong had he been given eyebrows, but it only managed to make his eyes look sunken in it's shadow. His cheeks were so thin, and she could see the outline of the muscle of his jaw. And then, there in the center of his face, was the bisected gaping hole where there should have been a nose.

Fresh tears leaked out over her cheeks at the horror of it. It did not look like a face attached to a living person. No one could have such features and live, could they? But the proof of it stood before her, still panting-still glaring.

"Tears, Christine? Ah yes, tears. But you mustn't cry, child. You wanted this. Look...LOOK!" He grasped her chin, pulling her towards him until they were inches apart. One arm made a band of steel behind her back, almost bending her over double, his lips almost brushed hers as he commanded her, "Feast your eyes, little girl. See? Handsome, right?  _Right_?! Love  _this_! Care for  _this_! Go on, little one. Want a kiss, eh? Shall we kiss, Christine? I'm sure you'd faint in my arms straight away! How romantic it will be! Like Don Juan! Ha! Your personal Don Juan!"

"Erik-"

"Erik," he mimicked cruelly. " _Erik, Erik_! This is Erik's face! Or shall I say this is Erik's  _burden_. This is the face of the thing you have such tender feelings for. You care, hm? You care for me? Still want to sing for me? Still think I can create beauty? Come, Christine finish your thoughts! Declare your feelings so we may be together! That we may make beauty and love and be happy! Don't I inspire happiness? No? Oh, you're crying! No words now!"

"Maestro please," she whined, clawing at the hand that held her chin. "Please! You're hurting me!"

He let her go and she dropped to the floor, staring at his shined shoes. She clutched at her shirt, and couldn't look up. Oh God, that face- Erik bent over her, speaking low in her ear.

"Know this, my pretty girl. I am this from head to toe. You have seen, remember? Remember Christine?" He ripped off his gloves, shoving his hands into her line of vision. " _Showed you mine, show me yours_! How sweetly you held my hands! You kissed me! You kissed my dead hands!" His voice cracked and he spun away from her, pacing the floor.

Christine squeezed her eyes closed. He did look dead, like a corpse come to life. And he was so thin-dead from head to toe. She let out a little sob. Poor Erik! Poor deformed Erik!

"Yes cry! Weep Christine, men have before you. Many just about to die welcomed death once they saw my face! Anything to escape this creature! Oh now you are looking at me, so brave to look me in the eyes! Yes, Christine, death! I am made of death and I have brought death! I am death incarnate, and it is death and destruction that gave you your voice! It is death that loves you! That adores you! Oh Christine,  _Christine_..."

Erik's turned away, covering his awful face with awful his hands, hunched over with the pain of it all. Christine shakily got to her feet. Brought death? What was he talking about? He wasn't making any sense, and she couldn't puzzle it out. But here was her teacher, the man she was beginning to love, weeping. And how he cried, great wracking sobs that shook his entire frame. "Oh no, Maestro, please..." Her voice was barely there, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He fell to his knees, just as she always feared he would turned to her, reaching out to clutch her shirt. "Oh Christine, please. Please you mustn't care for me. No, let me love you from afar. Let me watch over you and care for you and let us make beautiful music, but do not  _care_ for me. I am your willing servant, I swear, but do not care! It can only harm you. Please, please let me be your Maestro still. Please Christine!"

He ducked his head again, hands falling from her clothes as he continued to weep. Her stern elegant teacher reduced to a creature crawling on the floor before her. She stepped back, unable to take it. Had she done this? Had she reduced him to this? What had her confession, her love, done to him? "No, Erik, please. Please, Maestro, get up off the floor! Please!"

It only brought more sobs, and for a moment she couldn't tell what he was doing. Then with a sickening feeling of falling she realized he was kissing the floor where she had stood. "Don't, don't do that!" But instead of rushing forward, to pull him up straight, she could only back further and further away from the sight, aghast.

"Christine-No,  _Christine_!"

Her foot hit nothing but air, and she fell. White hot pain blossomed from the back of her skull, and then the world was suddenly, blissfully silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought I'd let you all know, if you want to scream at me in real time, my writing blog on tumblr is donttouchthekeyboard  
> Just in case you need it.  
> ~Donttouchthefigs


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